\/6ieEs 


DUS 


GIFT  OF 
SEELEY  W.  MUDD 

and 

GEORGE  I.  COCHRAN     MEYER  ELSASSER 
DR.  JOHN  R.  HAYNES    WILLIAM  L.  HONNOLD 
JAMES  R.  MARTIN         MRS.  JOSEPH  F.  SARTORI 

to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SOUTHERN  BRANCH 


JOHN  FISKE 


PS 

3157 
"r27v     '"ashburn   - 

Voices   from  a 

Tn-i  sv    1  1  f  ft  . 


?S 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


OWVBR55ITy  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

XJELES 
LIBRARY 


VOICES    FROM    A    BUSY    LIFE 


SELECTIONS   FROM   THE   POETICAL   WORKS 


OF   THE   LATE 


EDWARD   A.   WASHBURN,   D.D. 


NEW  YORK 
ANSON   D.    F.    RANDOLPH    &   COMPANY 

900   BROADWAY,    COR.    2OTH   STREET 


100476 


COPYRIGHT,    1883,    BY 
ANSON    D.    F.    RANDOLPH    &    COMPANY. 


NEW   YORK : 

EDWARD   O.   JENKINS,  ROBERT   RUTTER, 

Printer  and  Stereotyper,  Binder, 

20  North  William  St.  116  &  118  E.  i4th  St. 


TS 


PREFACE. 


"/«  everything  ye  are  enriched  by  him  :  in  all 
utterance." 

Such  is  the  Apostle's  description  of  that  faculty 
of  our  nature  which  gives  outward  expression  to  the 
Spiritual  element  within  us.  To  the  many  friends 
who  never  knew  this  side  of  his  nature,  this  little 
book  will  shew  the  rare  power  of  poetical  utterance 
which  enriched  the  nature  of  the  late  Dr.  Wash- 
burn. 

WM.     WlLBERFORCE    NEWTON. 
AUGUST  23,  1883. 


MOTTO  FROM  DANTE'S  PARADISO. 

"  Here  are  descried 

Those  who  with  modesty  themselves  confessed         » 
Work  of  his  goodness  unto  whorn  they  owe 
The  high  attainments  that  have  made  them  blest. 
Whence  through  enlightening  grace,  from   Heaven 

obtained, 

And  their  own  merit,  they  raised  their  sight  so  high, 
A  will  complete  and  steadfast  they  have  gained." 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE A 3 

MOTTO 5 

THORWALDSEN'S  CHRIST 9 

THE  LOST  THOUGHT 12 

REQUIEM 14 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 16 

TWILIGHT  ON  THE  RIVER 20 

THE  MINNOW 22 

THE  Cm  AND  THE  LEPER 25 

PYGMALION 27 

LEAVES 34 

THE  VISION  OF  YOUTH 35 

THE  AURORA 38 

LOVE    THOU?  —  THE    HEART'S    ANSWER    TO 

"  LOVE  NOT  " 41 

SILENT  LOVE 43 

THE  AIR-PLANT 44 

SONG — "  LOVE  is  BLIND  " 45 

THE  TRYSTING-TREE 48 

THE  MAIDEN'S  PRAYER 50 

SONG 53 

5 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  PORTRAIT 55 

THE  BANIAN 57 

VOICES  OF  THE  SEA 60 

THE  DESERTED  CONVENT 62 

EASTER  ON  MOUNT  OLIVET 66 

A  BUNCH  OF  Fucus  NATANS,  GATHERED  OFF 

THE  AZORES  .t 71 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  VOLUME  OF  LATIMER'S 

SERMONS 73 

OXFORD  TRACTS 74 

THE  SAGE  OF  THE  POLLEN 75 

THE  FRESHET 79 

HUNGARY 83 

THE  CENTURY  FLOWER 86 

THE  BURIAL  AT  GETTYSBURG 88 

THE  AFRICAN  COLOUR-SERGEANT 91 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  DEAD  CID 93 

THE  GRASS-GROWN  RAMPART 98 

GIUSEPPE  MAZZINI 100 

1875 102 

CAROLS. 

RING  OUT  THE  BELLS 109 

SOFTLY  THE  NIGHT  is  SLEEPING in 

JOY  TO  THE  WORLD 113 

CHRIST  HATH  ARISEN 115 

WAKE  TO-DAY,  YE  GLADSOME  VOICES 117 

SPANISH  HYMN 119 

6 


CONTENTS. 

TRANSLATIONS    OF   ANCIENT   CHRISTIAN 
HYMNS. 

PAGE 

CHILDREN  IN  PARADISE St.  Ephraim.  123 

Lucis  LARGITOR  SPLENDIDE Hilary.  125 

BEATA  NOBIS  GAUDIA Hilary  127 

AURORA  Lucis  RUTILAT Ambrose.  129 

^ETERNA  CHRISTI  MUNERA "  130 

O  GEINS  BEATA  CCELITUM  ! Augustin.  132 

QUID,  TYRANNE!  QUID  MINARIS...  "  135 

JAM  MCESTA  QUIESCE  QUERELA..  .Prudentius.  137 

DE  CRUCE  CHRISTI Fortunatus.  139 

NUNTIUM  VOBIS  FERO  DE  SUPERNIS  .  Gregory.  141 

VENI,  SANCTE  SPIRITUS Robert  of  France.  142 

GRAVI  ME  TERRORE  PULSAS  .  .Petrus  Damiani.  144 

AUDI,  TELLUS,  AUDI Anonymous.  147 

CUR  MUNDUS  MILIT 'AT. Bernard  of  Clairvaux.  148 
AD  COR  CHRISTI— SUMMI  REGIS  COR,  AVETO. 

Bernard  of  Clairvaux.  1 5  2 

IN  TERRIS  ADHUC  POSITAM Abslard.  1 56 

HYMNI  NOCTURNI Abelard.  1 57 

MUNDI  RENOVATIO Adam  of  St.  Victor.  159 

O  ESCA  VlATORUM  ! Thomas  Aquinas.  160 

RECORD  ARE  SANCTE  CRUCIS  . . .  Bonaventura.  161 

OMNIS  MUNDI  CREATURA..  .Alanus  Insulanus.  164 

VITA  NOSTRA  PLENA  BELLIS,  "  "  167 

ALL  ANGELS Thomas  a  Kempis.  163 

ANTIPHONA  AD  NOCTURNOS Anonymous.  171 

7    ' 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ST.  JOHN  EVANGELIST Anonymous.  172 

ALTITUDO,  QUID  Hie  JACES? "  175 

PARVUM  QUAXDO  CERNO  DEUM..          "  177 

PONE  LUCTUM  MAGDALENA ! "  179 

O!    QUANTA,  QUALIA  SUNT   ILLA   SABBATA. 

Anonymous.  181 

AVE  ROSA  SPIXIS  PUNCTA' "  183 

IN  XATALI  DOMINI "  184 

CUM  ME  TENENT  FALLACIA...            ..Ah.rd.  186 


THORWALDSEN'S  CHRIST. 

THOUGHTFUL  stands  the  gray-haired 
sculptor, 

Silent  as  the  silent  stone, 
From  the  chaos  of  the  marble 

To  the  living  Godhead  grown  ; 
But  a  gloom  is  on  his  forehead, 

Pales  the  fire  within  his  glance, 
Till  at  last  the  brooding  sorrow 
Breaks  in  sad,  high  utterance. 

Holy  Art !  thy  dreams  of  beauty 

Carved  my  cunning  hand  before  ; 
Still  above  the  earth-born  image 

Bodiless  my  thoughts  would  soar  ; 
Still  the  pure,  unfound  Ideal 

Would  ensoul  a  fairer  mould  : 
In  this  faultless  work  I  perish, 

And  Thorwaldsen  now  is  old  ! 
9 


THORWALDSEN'S  CHRIST. 

Noble  artist !  thine  the  yearning, 

Thine  the  great,  creative  word, 
By  the  wakeful  mind  forever 

In  its  nightly  watches  heard. 
For  the  earthly  it  is  pleasure 

Only  earthly  end  to  gain  ; 
For  the  seeker  of  the  Perfect 

To  be  satisfied  is  pain. 

Visions  of  the  unseen  glory 

Milton  saw  in  his  eclipse, 
Paradise  to  outward  gazers 

Lost  with  no  apocalypse  : 
Holier  Christs  and  veiled  Madonnas 

Painted  were  on  Raphael's  soul  ; 
Melodies  he  could  not  utter 

O'er  Beethoven's  ear  would  roll. 

Ever  climbs  the  high  Ideal 

Rosy  peaked  above  our  eyes  ; 
Ever  near  the  Happy  Islands, 

Shoreless  the  horizon  flies. 
Not  the  brimming  cups  of  wisdom 

May  the  thirsty  spirit  slake, 
And  the  molten  gold  in  pouring 

Will  the  mould  in  pieces  break. 


THORWALDSEN'S  CHRIST. 

Voice  within  our  inmost  being 

Calling  deep  to  answering  deep  ! 
Smiting  like  the  morning  sunbeam 

On  the  leaden  lids  of  sleep  ! 
All  our  joy  is  in  our  Future, 

And  our  march  our  only  rest  : 
Still  the  True  reveals  the  Truer, 

Still  the  Good  foretells  the  Best. 

January,  1850. 


THE    LOST    THOUGHT 

IN   the  soul's  morning,  when   it  stood  wide 
open 
As  heaven  gate,  whence  airs  breathed   dewy 

laden 

From  rosy  buds,  and  fancies,  half-fledged  an- 
gels, 

Around  it  played  ; 

Came  there  a  Thought,  still  floating  as  the 

twilight, 

Folding  its  gracious  wing  around  me,  bearing 
The  mind  a  happy  captive  in  its  fetters 
Of  soaring  joy. 

In   that   strange   dream    faded    the   world    of 

shadows  ; 

And  as  the  seer,  caught  in  unbodied  vision, 
Heard  I  a  music  the  heart's  lips  can  never 
Whisper  aloud. 


THE  LOST   THOUGHT. 

What  was   my  Thought  ?    alas  !    I    know  no 

longer  ; 

Only  a  trackless  wonder,  come,  unstaying  ; 
Only  on  memory's  shifting  sand  a  foot-print 
Washed  by  the  wave. 

Only  I  beckon  back  a  gliding  spectre  ; 
Only  I  hear  in  the  still,  windless  night-time 
The  eternal  murmur  of  a  billow,  plashing 
On  far-off  shores. 

Return'st  thou  not,  O  Thought  !   O  long-lost 

treasure  ! 

Thou  shalt  return,  when  from  this  sleep-exist- 
ence 
We  waken,  when  the  sea  of  Memory 

Gives  up  its  dead. 
January,  1849. 


REQUIEM. 

LIGHTLY  fall ;  fall  thou  ah  !  lightly 
Over  the  maiden,  kind  earth  ! 
Never  a  burthen  hath  pressed 
On  the  white,  joy-loving  breast, 
Fresh  with  the  dew  of  its  birth. 

Vex  not  her  sweet  sprite  with  sighing  ; 

Why  for  the  happy  one  weep  ? 
Staining  with  envious  eyes 
The  pillow  of  green,  where  she  lies 

Smiling  in  innocent  sleep. 

Bloom,  ye  first  buds  of  the  springtide, 

Over  the  new-scented  bed  ; 
Faery  cups,  wet  from  the  snow, 
Violets,  nestle  ye  low, 

Close  to  the  slumbering  head. 

There  from  his  flowery  chalice 
Sips  still  the  wild  honey-bee  ; 
There  the  red  oriole  sings, 
Shaking  the  drops  from  his  wings, 
Piping  his  matins  of  glee. 


REQUIEM. 

There  in  soft  dream  of  the  morning 

Leans  she  with  half  open  ear  ; 
Ripples  of  sunshine  she  quaffs, 
Lists  when  the  meadow-brook  laughs, 
Creeping  thro'  cool  mosses  near. 

Blossom  and  song  of  the  woodland, 

These  were  the  faery  child's  breath  ; 
She  is  a  song  ever  staying, 
She  a  spring  bud  undecaying  ; 

Thou  canst  not  change  her,  O  death 

September,  1847. 

15 


THE    FOUNTAIN   OF   YOUTH. 

nPHE  Old  Year's   hour  is  come.     In   silence 
kneeling 

I  drink  its  faint,  low  breath  ; 
As  the  fond  Roman  caught  the  spirit  stealing 

In  the  last  kiss  of  death. 

O,  sister  !  latest  born  of  our  dear  mother, 

Bud  that  half  opened  hung 
Fresh  with  the  morning  dews,  forgive  a  brother, 

Whose  love  would  keep  thee  young. 

I  see  thee  woman,  yet  I  strangely  linger 

'Midst  those  green,  roseate  days, 
And  fain  would  stay  with  a  regretful  finger 

The  blooms  that  seem  decays. 

Yet  ah!  we  may  not  thwart  with  weak  endeavour 

The  happy  law  that  binds 
With  life's   swift  change   the  beauty   ripened 

ever 

In  flower  or  blossoming  minds. 
16 


THE   FOUNTAIN  OF   YOUTH. 

O,  sister  mine  !  I  cull  from  caskets  olden 

Of  weird,  sweet  histories, 
A  tale,  wherein  as  in  a  setting  golden 

The  pearl  of  wisdom  lies. 

In  the  long  twilight  of  the  dreaming  ages, 

Where  childlike  fancy  strayed, 
A  fount  of  youth — so  was  the  lore  of  sages — 

In  some  lone  earth-nook  played. 

Whoe'er  those  faery  waters  should  discover, 

Bathing  wan  face  and  limb, 
A  lean,  dry  grey-beard,  a  sad  limping  lover, 

New  life-blood  danced  in  him. 

When  the  New  World  burst  on  old  Europe's 
vision, 

A  boundless  dreamland  rare, 
That  fount  of  youth,  that  hidden  well  Elysian 

They  deemed  was  bubbling  there. 

To   that  sweet   shore,  whose   flowery  wilder- 
nesses 

Bloom  in  its  gleeful  name, 

Where  summer  stays  the  year  with  fond  caresses, 
A  band  of  pilgrims  came. 
17 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF    YOUTH. 

Alas  !  in  dank  savannas,  poison-laden, 

Full  many  a  seeker  lay  ; 
From  weary  quest  to  many  a  woful  maiden 

Came  back  a  gallant  grey. 

Yet,  sister  mine  !  that  legend  was  no  dreaming  ; 

Doubt  not  'tis  wisest  sooth  ! 
Though  in  no  spot  of  earth,  yet  ever  streaming 

Is  that  lost  well  of  youth. 

Not  in  the  infant  smile,  the  brow  unshaded, 

The  play  of  dimpled  cheek, 
But  in  a  deeper  life  there  dwells  unfaded 

The  childhood  that  we  seek. 

The  soul  that  wears  a  freshness  all  unwasting, 

The  heart  as  warm  and  free 
As  April  buds,  not  earth's  mad  revels  tasting 

To  bring  satiety. 

The  life  that  garners,  in  a  world  of  folly, 

The  beautiful  and  pure, 
This,  maiden  best  beloved  !  the  childhood  holy, 

Whose  spring-time  shall  endure. 
18 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF   YOUTH. 

In  those  baptismal  waters  Christ  hath  sprinkled, 

Forever  bathe  thy  heart, 

And  He  shall  keep  thee  spotless  and  unwrin- 
kled, 

As  now  a  child  thou  art. 

Each  thought  of  joy,  each  guileless  recollection 

Shall  linger  ever  near ; 
And  golden  cups  of  hope  and  bright  affection 

Bloom  by  that  fountain  clear. 

Still  come  thy  early  days,  young  birds  return- 
ing, 

Tho'  wanderers  from  the  nest, 
Still  homeward  look  with  instinct  of  glad  yearn- 
ing 
Toward  the  mother  breast. 

O,  sister!  may  the  children's  angels,  waiting 

Before  the  Father's  throne, 
Watch  over  thee,  new,  happier  years  creating, 

When  the  dear  Past  is  flown. 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE, 

December  31,  1849. 

19 


TWILIGHT    ON   THE   RIVER. 

SEE  soft-footed  twilight  creep 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  stream  : 
Breathless  the  broad  shadows  sleep  ; 

Yonder  oaks,  in  voiceless  dream, 
Bend  as  with  a  fond  amaze, 
While  another  self  they  see, 
Silvery  leaf  and  branching  tree, 
Nodding  to  their  nodding  gaze  : 
Only  o'er  them  broods  the  change 
Of  a  slumberous  beauty  strange. 

Silently  the  wondrous  Past 
Over  the  shapes  of  faded  life 

Doth  his  twilight  shadows  cast ; 
All  its  wind-tossed  boughs  of  strife 

Clear  reflected  here  again, 
Real  as  in  days  gone  by, 
But  in  softened  hues  they  lie  ; 

Painless  images  of  pain  ; 

Steeped  by  that  unearthly  charm 

In  a  trance  of  holy  calm. 


TWILIGHT   ON    THE  RIVER. 

O  sweet  world  of  memories  ! 

Gleaming  in  the  peaceful  heart ; 
Passing  time  the  shadow  is, 

Thou  our  real  being  art ! 
Loves  and  joys,  tho'  seen  no  more, 

As  the  sea  nymphs  in  their  cave 

In  still  deeps  beneath  the  wave 
Builded  on  the  ocean  floor, 
An  unwrinkled,  ageless  race 
Have  their  silent  dwelling-place. 

PARKER  RIVER,  NEWBURYPORT. 
October,  1850. 

21 


THE    MINNOW. 

HAIL  to  thee,  brave  voyager  ! 
Sea  King  of  this  stormless  meer  ; 
Pigmy,  madcap  water  sprite, 
Shooting  left  and  shooting  right 
As  an  arrow  of  the  sun  ; 
Brimful  of  thy  gushing  fun  ; 
Minnow  gay,  thou  art  to  me 
A  fresh  thought,  a  laugh  of  glee. 
Sleepless,  limber,  frolic  thing  ! 
All  thy  life  a  gambolling, 
All  thy  rest  an  endless  motion 
In  thy  small  Pacific  Ocean. 

Say,  thou  tiny  fish,  hast  known 
Of  a  world  beyond  thine  own  ? 
Haply  legend  dim  and  hoar 
May  have  reached  thine  inland  shore, 
Of  the  monster  ships  that  sail 
Broad  winged  in  the  howling  gale  ; 


THE   MINNOW. 

Where  the  huge  Leviathan, 
Kaiser  of  the  tumbling  main, 
Rides  amidst  his  scaly  court ; 
Where  the  merry  sea  gods  sport ; 
And  in  trail  of  doomed  bark 
Cruiseth  keen  the  pirate  shark. 

But,  sweet  minnow,  what  are  these 
Save  fond,  silly  fantasies  ? 
Naught  for  thee  hath  breath  or  being, 
That  transcends  thy  orb  of  seeing  ; 
All  the  unknown  and  the  far 
Uncreated  nothings  are  : 
Naught  to  thee  doth  lie  beyond 
The  horizon  of  thy  pond  ; 
'Tis  thy  vast  OIHOV^VIJ, 
Bounded  by  the  dark  world  sea  ; 
For  no  deeper  lore  thou  carest, 
Backward,  forward  ever  farest, 
Save  perchance  some  hardy  band 
Sail  for  rumoured  new-found  land, 
Or  a  thrice-adventurous  Cook 
Circumnavigate  the  brook. 
Never  danger,  never  din, 
Save  when  boy  with  crooked  pin 
23 


THE  -MINNOW. 

Some  young  Izaak,  all  untried, 
Angles  by  the  water  side. 
Naught  thou  deem'st,  unlearned  elf, 
Bigger  than  thy  simple  self  ; 
Thou  the  centre,  thou  the  heart 
Of  the  circling  system  art  ; 
Life  for  thee  has  riddles  none  ; 
All  is  daylight  and  broad  sun  ; 
Yesterday  nor  unborn  morrow 
Brings  a  care  nor  leaves  a  sorrow  ; 
Haunted  thou  by  no  ideal  ; 
Dwellest  only  in  the  real, 
All  untinged  with  hope  or  fear  ; 
Happiest  in  thy  corner  thou  ! 
Thine  Eternity  is  now, 
And  thy  universe  is  here. 

Laughing  sage  within  the  brook  ! 
Better  from  thee  than  a  book 
I  the  hints  of  wisdom  gain  ; 
Many  a  thought  for  larger  brain, 
Many  a  truth  within  whose  span 
Floats  the  minnow  mind  of  man, 
That  shall  make  thy  silent  stream 
More  musical  than  Academe. 

February,  1844. 

24 


THE    CID    AND    THE    LEPER. 

DAWN  o'er  castled  hill-top  glances  ; 
Rides  Rodrigo  of  Bivar, 
'Midst  the  gleam  of  twenty  lances, 

Flashing  as  the  morning  star  : 
To  the  shrine  of  Compostella 

Rides,  our  Lady's  grace  to  gain  ; 
Gentlest  heart  'neath  stoutest  corslet, 
Soul  of  chivalry  and  Spain  ! 

See  !  a  lothely  leper  lying 

Whelmed  within  the  miry  road  : 
'  Help,  good  Christian  men,  the  dying  ; 

Help  me  for  the  love  of  God  ! ' 
Spur  the  knights  with  idle  jeering, 

But  Rodrigo  stoopeth  low  ; 
And  the  hapless  beggar  nearing, 

Lifts  him  to  his  saddle  bow. 

At  the  hostel  board  he  seats  him, 

Crowned  with  meats  and  amber  wine 

And  with  kindliest  welcome  greets  him 
'  Taste,  my  brother,  all  is  thine  ! ' 
25 


THE    CID    AND    THE    LEPER. 

Chafing  like  an  angry  billow, 

From  the  hall  each  lordling  fares  ; 

But  Rodrigo  spreads  the  pillow, 
And  the  beggar's  bed  he  shares. 

Sleep  thou  like  a  child,  pure-hearted  ! 

But  in  holy  dead  of  night, 
Blew  a  piercing  wind  ;  he  started  ! 

Lo  !  he  saw  a  form  in  white  ! 
Lifts  it  o'er  him  hands  caressing, 

Bends  a  face  with  winsome  smile  ; 
'  Take  thou  saintly  Lazarus'  blessing  ; 

I  am  he,  yon  leper  vile. 

*  When  this  wind  blows  on  thy  shoulder, 

Strike,  for  God  shall  wield  thine  arm 
Bold  Tizona's  blade,  but  bolder 

Edged  by  me  with  saintly  charm. 
Thine,  O  Cid,  the  battle  holy, 

Thine  the  Christian  palm  and  song  ; 
For  the  gentle  heart  and  lowly 

Is  the  comrade  of  the  strong  ! ' 

February  i  1854. 


PYGMALION. 

A  LL  day  the  enamoured  sea  claspeth  the  shore 
i*    With  cestus  of  bright  waves  ;  the  frolic 

winds 

Toy  with  the  half  shut  lilies,  or  they  creep 
Thro'  haunts  of  broken  gloom,  where  myrtles 

drop 

Green  twilight  at  hot  noon,  white  altars  gleam, 
The  musk  rose  swings  its  censer,  and  the  doves 
Coo  to  each  other,  till  the  drowsy  sun 
Kisses  the  forehead  of  yon  blushing  hill. 
Then  blooms  the  star  of  Love ;  by  silver  beach 
Dances  the  chariot  of  the  gracious  queen, 
Swan  yoked,  with  wreaths  of  merry,  laughing 

maids, 
Flecks  on  the  purple  tide  :  and  through  the 

groves 

Jet  fountains  of  high  song,  and  winged  feet 
Flash  o'er  the  pansied  floor. 

But  far  within, 

A  forest  nook  there  lies,  beneath  the  brow 
27  » 


PYGMALION. 

Of  great  Olympus  nestled.     Noisier  sound 
Scares  not  the  slumbering  woodland,  than  the 

laugh 

Of  Lycus,  babbling  o'er  his  pebbled  bed 
To  the  lush  grasses.     There  in  sleepless  grief 
Sits  young  Pygmalion,  glory  of  the  art 
That  can  ensoul  the  marble  :  by  his  side 
Chisel  and  ivory  hammer,  careless  flung 
Amidst  the  ashes.     Lit  the  flickering  lamp 
The  midnight  of  his  face,  as  th'  altar  fire 
Glares  on  the  bleeding  victim,  while  the  priest 
Uprears  his  gilded  axe.     But  there  above, 
From  yonder  pedestal  one  dazzling  beam 
Clove  as  a  faulchion  thro'  the  scattered  dark ; 
A  marble  grace,  it  stood  as  if  a  god 
Envious  of  eating  age,  that  beauty  stayed 
In  its  full  opened  flower.    From  fringed  shores 
Looked  the  still  lake  of  her  deep  eyes,  and  fell 
The  spray  of  her  light  tresses  ;  rose  the  breast, 
As  winds  lift  softly  a  round  wave  that  sinks 
To  happy  sleep  again.     Upon  her  brow 
Sate  Guilelessness,  knowing  no  blush  of  shame, 
Covering  with  awful  robe  of  the  white  thought 
That  unclothed  wonder,  as  the  queen  of  love 
Crowned  upon  Ida,  yet  as  Pallas  girt 
•  '    28 


P  YGMALION. 

With  armour  of  an  unveiled  chastity. 
Bu.t  voiceless  as  the  stone  Pygmalion  lay  ; 
And  if  a  moment  o'er  his  haggard  cheek 
Stole  a  quick  glance,  anon  it  died  away, 
Moaning  along  dry  lips,  and  raged  within 
The  torrent  of  his  grief,  until  it  brake 
In  a  wild  wail  of  speech. 

O  empty  close  ! 

Sad  outcome  of  my  toils  !  for  in  this  soul 
A  dream  of  beauty,  an  unearthly  shape 
Fadeless  has    dwelt,    and  thro'  the   stainless 

years, 
Scorning  all  low-born  love,  winged  by  chaste 

hope, 

Mother  of  skill,  still  on  the  virgin  stone 
Gladsome  I  wrought,  for  still  by  day  and  night 
From  the  rough  block  looked  an  immortal  eye. 
And  not  in  vain.     Behold  the  perfect  thought, 
Behold  the  unseen  beauty,  worshipped  long 
In  my  heart's  holy  caves.     But  Art,  alas  ! 
What  see  I,  clasp  I  in  these  arms  but  stone  ? 
Not  life,  not  love,  but  only  cold,  dull  stone  ; 
Nor  smiles  the  eye,  nor  blushes  the  red  wave 
Through  the  white  veins,  nor  answer  the  dumb 

lips 

29 


P  YGMALION. 

My  burning  prayer.    O  fool !  Pygmalion,  fool ! 
Poor  worshipper  of  marble,  to  forego 
All  nearer  joy,  cheating  thy  youth  with  dreams, 
To  sink  an  unblessed  phantom  at  the  last 
Into  this  stony  tomb.    Speak,  cold,  dear  mouth  ! 
Send  from  thy  icy  lids  one  beam  !     In  vain, 
Yet  may  the  gods  have  pity.     Hear,  O  queen, 
Smile  on  thy  Cyprus,  bend  to  my  great  wo  ! 
By  my  pure  hopes,  my  toils,  my  sinless  love, 
Breathe  on  this  stone,  or  let  Pygmalion  die, 
For  this  his  triumph  is  his  crown  of  grief, 
And  death  of  life. 

He  spake,  and  wildly  now, 
With  a  last  sigh,  as  when  the  gasping  wind 
Pours  his  full  voice  and  falls,  he  clasped  again 
That  lifeless  form,  when  lo  !  he  started  back 
Shivering  with  fearful  joy  :  for  in  his  arms 
Thrilled  the  cold  stone,  and  a  warm  throbbing 

pulse 
Shot  through  his  own  ;  now  heaved  the  virgin 

breast, 

And  drooped  the  head  as  in  a  new-born  dread 
Within    the    trembling    hands  ;    the    crimson 

stream 

Darted  at  one  quick  bound  from  the  pale  brow 
30 


PYGMALION. 

To  the  blue  veinlets  of  the  tiny  feet, 
As  in  the  north  upleaps  the  wteard  light 
In  flashing  arrows,  then  a  climbing  flame 
Bathes  in  one  swelling  flood  the  joyless  skies. 
Dumb  stood   Pygmalion  there,  dumb  marble 

now 

Before  the  living  stone  ;  a  fresh-made  shame 
Bloomed  on  his  forehead,  and  those  eager  eyes, 
Feasting  so  late  on  a  chill  pleasure,  dared 
Snatch  only  stealthy  looks,  then  turned  away 
Hiding  themselves  in  depths  of  his  great  bliss. 
And  through  the  night  rippled  a  brook-like 

voice  : 

"  Take  thou,  O  worshipper,  thy  guerdon  true  ; 
To  him  who  loves  chaste  Beauty,  do  the  gods 
Grant  Beauty,  Love  and  Life."     The  whisper 

ebbed, 

And  as  a  sunbeam  from  the  pillar  sank 
That  living  marble  into  living  arms. 

O  sculptor  of  sweet  Cyprus  !  fadeless  type 
Of  the  creative  soul,  thy  legend  strange 
Whispers  to-day  as  the  Dodona  leaves 
Loosed  by  a  wind  divine  from  speaking  boughs. 
For  our  fresh  budding  youth  is  still  a  dream 


PYGMALION. 

Of  the  unseen,  unearthly  Good  we  carve 
In  the  white  marble  of  our  thought ;  but  now 
Faultless  it  stands  before  our  longing  eyes, 
We  clasp  it,  and  alas  !  'tis  cold,  hard  stone. 
O  riddle  of  all  earnest  souls  !  O  life 
Seeking  the  True,  the  Good,  the  Beautiful, 
And  finding  only  falsehood,  wanton  love, 
And  mocking  hope  :  so  cometh  weariness 
Of  the  first  visions,  till  the  sickened  heart 
Sinks  in  despair,  or  plunges  with  the  herd 
Into  the  pools  of  earth.     This  is  the  curse 
Of  time  ;  a  restless,  tossing  wave 
Whereon  we  sail,  as  the  tired  seaman  sees 
A  sunny  glint  far  o'er  the  purple  waste, 
A  phantom  shore,  and  straight  his  fancy  builds 
The  long-sought  wonder  of  the  Happy  Isles, 
Already  smells  the  musky  gums  and  treads 
O'er  the  enamelled  mead,  but  nearer  now 
The  golden  bank  melts  in  a  cruel  cloud, 
Above  the  endless  heaven,  and  all  around 
The  endless  sea. 

Yet  dream  thou  on,  brave  heart ! 
Thy  dream  is  truth.     Let  the  low-thoughted 

world 

Call  these  but  idle  phantoms.    Hath  the  spring 
32 


P  YGMALION, 

For   naught   her   dreams  ?   within   her   rathe, 

pale  bud 

There  lies  the  golden  summer.    Tho'  the  child 
Become  the  man,  tho'  the  young  callow  brood 
Of  fancy  change,  yet  never  the  pure  mind 
Loses  its  holy  vision.     Give  me,  then, 
Thy  soul,  O  sculptor,  thine  unfainting  will  ! 
O  deathless  youth,  with  all  thy  heaven  of  stars, 
Unquenched,  thro'  the  deep  shaft  of  memory 

seen 

At  noonday  ;  all  thy  rainbow  hues  of  hope 
Arching  the  fresh,  green  earth  :  ye  glens,  and 

flowers, 

And  song  of  the  first  bluebirds,  prattling  sweet 
The  child's  own  thought,  to  me,  to  me  return  ! 
Make  me  again  a  glad,  immortal  child  ! 
Breathe  still  the  early  faith,  and  'neath  the  ice 
Of  doubt  or  care  let  the  warm  hidden  springs 
Keep  summer  at  the  heart :  give  me  again 
The  dreams  from  out  the  ivory  gate,  again 
The  happy,  holy  dreams,  that  are  not  sleep, 
But  life's  true  waking.     The  Eternal  Good 
Waits  on  the  pure  :  and  still  the  vision  pure 
The  high  mind    shapes  shall  to  full  beauty 

grow, 

And  the  white  marble  to  a  living  soul. 
33 


LEAVES. 

A  MIDST  the  wild,  bare  mountains, 
**     Groweth  the  sacred  tree, 
Upon  whose  leaves  are  written 
The  words  of  mystery. 

From  topmost  twig  are  hanging 
The  broad,  green  tongues  divine  ; 

On  the  young  shoot  thou  spellest 
The  faintly  graven  line. 

I  bring  the  mystic  leaflets, 

In  dewy  freshness  now, 
Close  by  love's  hallowed  temple, 

Plucked  from  the  wondrous  bough. 

Each  hath  the  magic  letters, 

And  meaning  manifold 
From  the  soft,  trembling  touches 

To  the  last  writing  bold. 

O  priestess  !  thoughtful  priestess  ! 

Ask  thou  of  Buddha  wise, 
Of  past,  to  come,  and  present, 

What  truth  within  them  lies. 

October,  1852. 

34 


THE   VISION   OF  YOUTH. 

0  VISION  of  strange  beauty,  hovering  o'er 
The  charmed    eyes  of    the    soul,  whom  I 

adore 
With  fixed  and  passionate  gazing  evermore. 

Thou  floatest  still  across  my  floating  dream, 
As  o'er  the  wind-tossed  grain  a  waving  gleam 
Doth  now  a  shadow,  now  a  sunshine  seem. 

From  childhood's  dawn,  a  wondrous  presence 

thou 

Camest  unsought,  unknown,  in  manhood  now 
I  gaze  on  the  same  form,  the  holy  brow. 

Fair  art  thou,  clearly  seen  as  earthly  face, 
Yet  an  embodied  light,  a  lustrous  grace, 
Whose  features  I  behold,  but  can  not  trace. 

I  look  upon  thee  in  a  silent  trance  ; 
And  on  the  river  of  my  spirit  dance 
The  golden  ripples  of  thy  smiling  glance. 
35 


THE  VISION  OF  YOUTH. 

Thou    seem'st   as    one,    within    whose    image 

dwell 

Dear,  life-long  memories,  I  know  full  well  ; 
Yet  can  I  not  unfold  thy  magic  spell. 

Sometime,  a  lone  Chaldean,  from  afar 

I  watch  thee  on  thy  throne,  a  distant  star ; 

Then  thy  near  rays  within  me  gliding  are. 

In  joy's  full  noontide,  at  the  happy  hour, 
When    the   whole   heart   lies    open    to   love's 

power, 
As  lies  beneath  the  sun  the  open  flower, 

Then  comest  thou  !   and  my  glad  soul  in  quest 
Of  thy  fresh  dawning  goes  ;  upon  thy  breast 
Lean  I  mine  own,  and  feel  that  I  am  blest. 

In  the  dark  season  of  my  mournful  mood, 
When  sweeps  with  grisly  wings  a  spectre  brood. 
Making  a  midnight  of  my  solitude  ; 

Then  comest  thou  !     I  see  in  thy  soft  eyes 
A  glistening  tear,  and  in  thy  stealing  sighs 
A  whispered  voice  of  consolation  lies. 
36 


THE   VISION  OF  YOUTH. 

As  drops  upon  the  grass  the  soothing  rain, 
Its  still,  sweet  music,  so  upon  my  pain 
Drops  thy  dear  presence,  and  I  breathe  again. 

Art  thou  of  earth  or  heaven  ?     O  love  divine, 
Only  I  kneel  in  faith  before  thy  shrine, 
Only  I  know  in  soul  that  thou  art  mine. 

Yet  ever  and  anon  I  hear  a  tone  : — 

"  O  restless  heart !  thou  shalt  not  be  alone, 

But   thy   youth's  vision   soon    shall   be   thine 

own." 
January,  1841. 

37 


100476 


THE   AURORA. 

"T)  EMEMBEREST   thou,    sweet    love,    that 
A  *•     dream  of  wonder 

We  saw,  lone  watching  on  the  starlit  ocean, 
A  Northern  morning  walking  on  the  bosom 
Of  the  soft  eventide  ? 

Low   hung   the  moon,   her  bashful   brow  yet 
fairer 

Thro'  thin,  transfigured  cloud  ;  a  silvery  shore- 
line, 

Strange    towers    'mid    groves    of    palm,    and 
vapoury  hill-tops; 

Sate  on  the  desert  sea. 

Now  shot  from  silent  deeps  a  weird  light,  play- 
ing 

As  smile  o'er  parted  lips,  with  winsome  dim- 
pling 

Round  the  warm    cheek,   then    madly  leaped 
and  kindled 

The  high,  o'erarching  blue. 
38 


THE  AURORA. 

Then  throbbed  that  mighty  breast  with  arrowy 
pulses, 

Bathed  the  pale  forehead  in  its  flood  of  crim- 
son, 

And    thro'    its    blushes    glowed    the    Virgin 
Pleiads, 

As  eyes  of  dancing  glee. 

Mingled  were  sea  and  heaven,  a  twin  ocean  ; 
Above,  the  surging,  billowy  light ;  below  it, 
A  wave  of  flame,  rushing  and  melting  ever 
Into  one  fond  embrace. 

O  !  happy  vision,  gleaming  still  upon  me  ! 

The  image  of  my  love,  in  thought's  pale  night- 
time 

Struggling    to    life,    in    faint   and    quivering 
flashes 

From  the  heart's  hidden  deeps. 

Then  brake  its  rosy  fulness  o'er  my  heaven, 
And   thro'   the   cloud   the   holy   stars    looked 

smiling, 

And  met  our  kindred  souls,  a  mingling  tor- 
rent 

Of  light  and  billowy  joy. 
39 


THE  AURORA. 

O  !  morn  new  risen  on  night  !   and  shalt  thou 

vanish 

From  our  young  life  ?  only  as  that  dear  vision, 
Shall  passion's  flush  die  in  the  fuller  noontide 
Of  Love's  undying  peace. 

November,  1851. 

40 


LOVE   THOU. 

THE  HEART'S  ANSWER  TO  "LOVE  NOT.' 

LOVE  thou  !    love  thou  !    for  born  to  love 
thou  art : 

Its  mystic  ties  entwine  this  life  of  ours  ; 
And  opens  to  its  smiles  the  yearning  heart, 
As  bends  towards  the  light    the  darkened 
flowers. 

Love  thou  !   love  thou  !    tho'  in  the  mournful 
tomb 

The  frail,  decaying  forms  of  joy  may  lie  ; 
Yet  love  eternal  is  ;  the  nobler  bloom 

Of  its  fresh  spring-time  wakens  not  to  die. 

Love  thou  !   love  thou  !   tho'  poured  the  lavish 

tide 

O'er  barren  sands,  thro'  doubt,  thro'  false- 
hood cling  : 

Sad,  sad  the  spirit  in  its  fountain  dried, 
But  holier,  purer  grows  from  suffering. 


LOVE   THOU. 

Love  thou  !    love  thou  !     O  voices  sweet  that 
roll, 

An  angel  music  trembling  on  the  breeze 
From  distant  shores,  ye  whisper  to  the  soul, 

Its  perfect  peace,  its  endless  melodies. 

November,  1851. 

42 


SILENT    LOVE. 

me,  what  yon  bright  bird  dreameth 
A     As  he  sits,  with  folded  wing, 
And  forgets  awhile  to  sing  ? 
Blessed  mood  of  joy  !  meseemeth, 
Wooed  by  him  sweet  Silence  is 
To  unfold  her  harmonies. 

Know  you,  what  the  fond  flower  telleth 

To  the  dew-drop  on  her  breast  ? 

She  that  in  her  nook  of  rest 
Ever  meek  and  quiet  dwelleth  : 

Ah  !  her  loving  smiles  express 

All  her  silent  happiness. 

Know  you,  what  the  low  wind  sigheth 

To  the  waters  of  the  rill  ? 

Hark  !  in  murmurs  soft  and  still 
Now  the  virgin  stream  replieth. 

These  shall  teach  me,  dear,  to  woo  : 

Silence  is  my  song  to  you. 
November,  1851. 

43 


THE    AIR-PLANT. 

THERE  grows  a  plant  in  the  sunny  dell, 
Hanging  with  earthless  roots  and  bare, 
And  drinks,  a  gay,  bright  miracle, 
Its  nectared  life  from  out  the  air. 

My  heart  a  happy  air-plant  is, 

And  on  love's  balmy  breath  it  feeds  ; 

Nor  coarser  soil,  nor  sweeter  bliss 
Its  pure,  unearthly  being  needs. 

Thy  wordless  thoughts,  thy  soft,  dear  sighs, 
Thy  smiles,  distilled  in  silent  showers, 

Quaffing  in  thirsty  joy  it  lies, 

And  spreads  its  rich,  fantastic  flowers. 

December,  1851. 

44 


SONG. 

"LOVE  is  BLIND." 

WHO  speaks  that  slander  old, 
"  Love's  eyes  are  dim  "  ? — 
A  purblind  babbler  he  ! 

Love  laughs  at  him. 
Keener  than  Jove's  own  bird, 

Who  heavenward  flies, 

Mocking  the  shafts  of  noon, 

Are  Love's  bright  eyes. 

He  sees  the  soul  beneath 

The  shews  of  pride  ; 
Nor  robe,  nor  jewelled  wreath 

The  churl  can  hide  : 
He  counts  gay  fashion's  face 

But  painted  dust ; 
He  scorches  with  a  glance 

The  leer  of  lust. 

He  scorns  the  huckster  base 
Who  e'er  has  sold 

45 


SONG. 

Fair  woman's  virgin  grace 

For  earthly  gold  : 
He  dowries  him  with  hate, 

The  marriage  ring 
He  makes  a  molten  death 

To  burn  and  cling. 

He  seeth  beauty  pure, 

That  lowly  grows, 
As  o'er  the  cottage  porch 

The  briar  rose  : 
He  sees  the  throbbing  hopes, 

Stirring  the  breast, 
As  new-born  birds  that  chirp 

In  one  soft  nest. 

More  than  the  cold,  shrewd  brain, 

Shrivelled  in  youth, 
He  chooseth  childhood's  mind 

And  heart  of  truth  ; 
More  than  the  monarch's  gem, 

To  him  are  dear 
The  blush  of  one  fond  cheek, 

One  pearly  tear. 
46 


SONG. 

Who  speaks  that  slander  old, 

"  Love's  eyes  are  dim  "  ? 
A  purblind  babbler  he  ! 

Love  laughs  at  him. 
July,  1852. 

47 


THE    TRYSTING-TREE. 

0  MERRY  is  the  woodland  smile 
With  kiss  of  balmy  May  ; 
With  jocund  breeze,  and  jocund  bird 

On  every  dancing  spray  : 
But  sweeter  far  thy  pleasant  song 

Than  all  the  wild  birds'  glee, 
And  greener  are  thy  budding  joys, 
Thou  happy  trysting-tree  ! 

We  stood  upo;i  the  lonely  deck  ; 

Above  the  starry  deep, 
Around  the  calm,  blue  ocean  lay 

Rocked  in  a  dreamy  sleep  : 
The  low  winds  murmured  thro'  the  sail, 

The  mast  hung  o'er  the  sea  : 
And  there  beneath  its  shadows  dark 

We  had  our  trysting-tree. 

The  low  winds  sang,  the  waters  sighed  ; 

One  voice  alone  I  heard, 
A  music  softer  to  my  ear, 

Of  one,  half-whispered  word  : 
48 


THE  TRYSTING-TREE, 

I  pressed  to  mine  thy  throbbing  heart, 

I  felt  it  beat  with  me  ; 
I  knew  thy  love,  O  maiden  dear, 

Beneath  the  trysting-tree. 

Ah  !  blessed  tree  !   thou  bloomest  gay 

With  summer  beauty  now  ; 
With  fullest  leaf,  and  golden  fruit 

Upon  the  naked  bough  ; 
And  from  the  holy  shade  there  steals 

A  soul-like  melody, 
As  still  we  stand  in  joy  beneath 

The  dear  loved  trysting-tree. 
November,  1851. 

49 


THE   MAIDEN'S   PRAYER. 

pUARDIAN  Powers,  that  ever  dwell 
^•J     Watchful  of  this  sacred  well, 
Whose  bright  waters  give  again 
Health  to  sickly  heart  and  brain, 
Hear  a  hapless  maiden's  grief ; 
Grant,  O  grant,  a  swift  relief, 
With  your  potent  spells  restore 
My  true  love  to  me  once  more. 

Once  he  was  the  gravest  sage  ; 
Ever  from  his  earliest  age 
Might  his  visage  be  mistaken 
For  a  Leibnitz  or  a  Bacon  ; 
Learning  dwelt  within  his  looks, 
Deep  as  his  old  parchment  books  ; 
And  his  trivial  conversation 
Was  a  long  and  large  oration  ; 
Never  from  his  mouth  would  fall 
Sentiment  and  poor  romance  ; 
And  for  love,  he  scorned  it  all  ; 
Only  studied  us,  weak  creatures, 
As  gay  butterflies  or  plants, 
In  our  scientific  features. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  PRA  YER. 

But  a  change  has  o'er  him  passed 

Since  the  eve  of  Friday  last : 

All  day  long  entranced  he  walks  ; 

In  his  sleep  most  strangely  talks  ; 

Now  he  laughs,  and  now  he  sings  ; 

Chatters  the  absurdest  things  ; 

Reads  no  books,  but  spends  his  time 

Weaving  namby-pamby  rhyme  ; 

Writes  a  sentimental  sonnet 

To  my  shoe-string  or  my  bonnet ; 

Sits  and  gazes  in  my  eyes, 

Now  he  smiles,  and  then  he  sighs  ; 

Kisses  me  till  ne'er  a  skin 

Lingers  on  my  features  thin  : 

Now,  perhaps, —  the  jealous  fool ! — he 

Asks  me  if  I  love  him  truly  ; 

Like  a  thunder-cloud  he'll  mutter, 

Call  me  false,  deceiving,  heartless, 

If  to  others  I  should  utter 

Word  or  smile  with  freedom  artless  ; 

Then  as  suddenly  he's  jolly, 

As  this  moment  melancholy  ; 

Calls  me  darling,  rosebud,  lily, 

And  a  hundred  names  as  silly  ; 

Says  the  same  fond  things  forever, 

Tedious  as  he  once  was  clever ; 


THE  MAIDEN'S  PRA  YER. 

In  the  coldest  winter  weather 
Drags  me  with  him  hours  together, 
Gazing  at  the  moon  perhaps, 
With  most  crazy  rhapsodies, 
While  I  yawn  for  loss  of  naps, 
Or  in  speechless  torment  freeze. 
Vain  my  crying  or  complaining  ; 
I've  no  patience  now  remaining  ; 
Every  day  he  seems  the  more 
Wild  and  frantic  than  before. 

Well-a-day  !  what  damsel  e'er 

Had  a  harder  grief  to  bear? 

Tell  me,  gracious  spirits,  tell, 

Is  his  case  incurable  ? 

Must  I  give  him  up  ?     Alack  ! 

He  might  prove  a  maniac, 

And  he's  dearest  to  his  Fanny, 

Even  tho'  a  "wee  uncanny." 

Should  I  wed  him  ?  marriage  might 

Set  his  addled  senses  right, 

And  a  plain  domestic  diet 

Make  him  rational  and  quiet. 

Grant,  O  healing  spirits,  grant 

Pity  to  your  suppliant ; 

With  your  cooling  waves  recover 

My  forlorn  and  foolish  lover. 

November,  1851.  52 


SONG. 

FLY,  winged  dreams  ! 
Hover,  where  the  lonely  maiden 
On  her  couch  of  sorrow  lies, 
With  your  sweet  love-philters  laden, 

Softly  charm  her  sleepless  eyes  : 
From  the  earth  of  heavy  care, 

Lifted  on  your  purple  wings, 
To  the  world  of  beauty  bear, 
Of  bright  imaginings  ! 

Fly,  winged  dreams  ! 
Where  the  unseen  morrow  dances 

Far  upon  the  shadowy  hills  ; 
Breath  of  flowers  and  silvery  glances 

Waft  to  her  from  distant  rills  ; 
Flash  upon  her  unveiled  sight 

Visions  dimmed  too  long  with  tears, 
Glimpses  of  the  cloudless  light, 
Bliss  of  coming  years  ! 
53 


SOA'C. 

Fly,  winged  dreams  ! 
Drop  into  her  heart,  as  falleth 

The  dew-drop  in  the  sleeping  rose  : 
Whisper,  as  the  spring-time  calleth 

To  the  daisy  'neath  the  snows  ; 
Bathe  her  in  fresh  waves  of  hope 

From  the  touch  of  cankering  pain  ; 
Then  her  smiling  eyelids  ope 
To  glad  life  again. 

Fly,  winged  dreams  ! 
April,  1852. 


54 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

"Ays  $aoypaq)(*)v  apiffre. — ANACREON. 

COME,  best  painter,  draw,  I  pray  thee, 
Her  I  love,  with  lifesome  art ; 
I  will  give  thee  her  sweet  image 
Pictured  on  my  steadfast  heart : 

Paint  a  brow  as  sun-bright  morning 

Lights  the  pink  of  Alpine  snow  : 
Paint  a  cheek  as  fresh-blown  rosebud 

With  a  blushing  heart  below  ; 
Paint  a  mouth,  within  whose  dimples 

Mirth  and  Love  together  play, 
As  the  bees  'mid  honeysuckles, 

Singing  thro'  the  gladsome  day. 

Next  her  eyes  ; — thy  soul,  O  painter, 
Into  the  cunning  pencil  send  : 

Eyes  where  every  changeful  feeling 
In  a  sweet  confusion  blend  ; 

55 


THE  FOR  7  K.H.r, 

Let  them  twinkle  now  as  starlight ; 

Then  as  still,  as  clear,  as  deep, 
As  upon  soft  Como's  bosom 

Twilight  shadows  love  to  sleep. 

Next,  but  why  ?     I  see  thy  pencil 

From  the  listless  fingers  fall ! 
Yes,  'tis  true  !  no  face,  no  feature 

Have  I  given  thee,  friend,  at  all  : 
Only  the  fair,  inward  image  ; 

But,  good  artist,  this  is  she  ; 
Even  this  embodied  beauty, 

Thought  and  Joy  and  Purity. 

Ah  !  the  wizard  Love,  dear  painter, 

His  is  skill  outrunning  thine  ; 
He  the  fairest  earthly  likeness 

Changes  into  soul  divine. 
Put  away  thy  needless  pencil, 

I  have  learned  more  lifesome  art ; 
Let  me  keep  the  picture  gleaming 

On  the  canvas  of  the  heart. 
July,  1852. 


THE  BANIAN. 

COME  dream  awhile  with  me,  sweet  maid, 
Under  this  giant  banian's  shade  ; 

Look  how  its  stately  branches  bend, 
Loving,  childlike  arms  that  cling, 
The  mother  trunk  engarlanding, 

Springing,  clasping  without  end, 

And  in  a  pillared  temple  blend, 

A  grey,  cloistered  solitude, 
Barred  from  eye  of  envious  day, 
Save  some  tattling  sunbeam  stray 
Through  the  leafy  lattice  peep  ; 

Ever  pale  green  twilights  brood, 
Low  winds  whisper  in  their  sleep  ; 

And  we,  hermits  of  the  wrood, 
With  the  still  birds  have  our  nest, 
Folding  our  wings  in  voiceless  rest. 

So,  fond  heart,  our  life  shall  be 
This  o'er-arching  banian  tree  ; 
57 


THE  BANIAN. 

Every  thought,  each  holy  tie. 
Dropping  its  lithe,  quick  root  below, 
Upward  a  new-born  arm  shall  grow, 
Until  its  branching  infancy 
Blossoms  to  a  sacred  grove, 
A  Dodona  of  green  love, 
Where  the  heart,  a  priestess,  dwells, 
And  every  leaf  sings  oracles. 

There,  within  our  cool  retreat, 
In  life's  noontide,  dear,  we'll  lie, 

Listening  to  the  busy  feet 
Of  the  mad  world  hurrying  by  : 

Thought  profane,  nor  carking  care 
Ever  vex  that  charmed  air. 

Then,  as  the  long  twilight  holy 
Of  our  old  age  creepeth  slowly, 

We  the  soul  of  former  years 
Into  our  magic  ring  will  call  ; 
Blessed  memories,  one  and  all  ; 

Loves  that  grew,  baptised  in  tears, 
Heart  buds  wet  with  healing  dews  ; 
Pleasures,  that  as  sunset  hues 
Thro'  the  kindling  branches  cast 
Bars  of  gold  along  the  past : 
58 


THE  BANIAN. 

Griefs,  that  bound  our  souls  in  one 
More  than  all  delights  have  done  ; 
Till  our  common  life  shall  seem 
Fairer  than  a  poet's  dream  ; 
And  as  this  banian,  ever  spring 
In  fresh,  green  boughs  o'ershadowing. 
July,  1852. 

59 


VOICES  OF  THE  SEA. 


ever-sounding  sea  ! 
A       What  say  thy  billowy  voices 
To  the  young  heart,  that  in   its   strength   re 

joices 
Of  faith  and  hope  ?     We  leap  with   footsteps 

free, 

Singing  unchecked,  exultingly 
By  rock-girt  cape,  or  isles 
Where  deathless  summer  smiles, 
From  shore  to  passing  shore, 
Evermore  —  evermore. 

O  mighty,  tossing  breast  ! 
What  to  the  sad  soul  weary 
Utters  thy  voice  ?     We  roam  a  desert  dreary, 
Champing  th'  eternal  chain,  nor  may  we  rest 
By  golden  islands  of  the  Blest, 
But  round  the  icy  pole 
Again  our  waters  roll, 
With  loud,  complaining  roar, 
Evermore  —  evermore. 
60 


VOICES  OF  THE  SEA. 

What  say'st,  great  Ocean,  now, 

When  after  long  years  lonely 

The  yearning  soul  finds  rest  ?  the  storm-winds 

only 

Can  vex  the  changeful  face  ;  but  far  below 
Pure  and  untroubled  waters  flow  ; 
As  God's  heart  calm  and  deep, 
Lieth  mine  heart  asleep  ; 
His  peace  soft  broodeth  o'er, 
Evermore — evermore. 

Ah  !  many-voiced  main  ! 

Thy  mirth  or  moaning  madness 

Are  but  the  spirit's  own  ;  in  grief  and  gladness 

She  hears  her  music  floating  back  again  ; 

The  hills,  the  varied  woodland  strain, 

The  heaven  gay  or  pale, 

The  winds  that  laugh  or  wail, 

The  same  heart's  echo  pour 

Evermore — evermore. 
November,  1851. 


6l 


THE   DESERTED   CONVENT. 

THE  stately  cliff  hangs  gazing  o'er  the  wave  , 
The    wave    sings    sadly    to    the    pebbled 

shore, 

A  sleepless  ghost,  who  wanders  by  the  grave, 
Low  moaning  for  the  years  that  bloom   no 
more. 

A  gaunt,  grey  ruin  bend  the  convent  walls  ; 

The  giant  cactus  clasps  the  tottering  stone  ; 
With  a  wan  smile  the  setting  sunbeam  falls 

Across  the  moss-grown  walk  and  cloister 
lone. 

No  more  are  heard,  as  in  the  bygone  days, 
The  ringing  lauds,  the  aves  of  sweet  prayer ; 

But  fitfully  the  gust  of  autumn  plays, 

And  the   shrill  sea-bird   smites  the  startled 


No    more,    awaked   with    chime    of   gladsome 

morn 
The    white -robed    priest   before    the    altar 

kneels  ; 

62 


THE  DESERTED  CONVENT. 

Nor  vesper-bell,  on  quivering  breezes  borne, 
As  a  soft  blessing  o'er  the  ocean  steals. 

Yet  here,  amidst  these  waste,  unpeopled  cells 
Linger  unseen  pale  Thought,  and  holy  Dread  ; 

Still  in  her  faded  home  Devotion  dwells, 
To  lift  a  prayer  for  the  forgotten  dead. 

Nor  let  harsh  bigotry  with  angry  eyes 

This  mouldering  tomb  of  buried  years  in- 
vade ; 
Or  the  meek  heart  of  piety  despise, 

That  whilome  bloomed  beneath  the  convent 
shade. 

Dim  was  the  sun  that  thro'  the  cloister  stole, 
The  glimmering  twilight  of  a  truth  divine  ; 

Yet  burned  unquenched  the  taper  of  the  soul, 
A  flame  of  love  that  lit  the  inner  shrine. 

Here  foreheads,  pale  with  midnight  vigil  long, 
Bent  o'er   the  scroll  with  Austin's  wisdom 

stored  ; 

And  here  the  incense  of  sweet  Ambrose'  song 
Was  evermore  from  golden  censers  poured. 
63 


THE  DESERTED  CONVENT. 

Here  rested  hearts,  once  crushed  with  heavy 

years,      . 

Who  chose  the  palm  of  toil  for  earthly  ease  ; 
These  walls  were  washed  with  balm  of  healing 

tears, 

And    worn    the    stony    floor   with    bleeding 
knees. 

Nor  scorn,  ye  madly  daring  ones  who  climb 
Upward  to  ice-clad,  dizzy  peaks  of  fame, 

These  lowly  souls,  tho'  no  far-soaring  rhyme 
Utter  with  trumpet  peal  their  hidden  name. 

Not  theirs  the  glistering  gems  that  monarchs 

wear, 
The  blood-flecked  laurel,  withering  with  the 

strife  ; 

Enough  for  them  the  daily  cross  to  bear 
Along  the  rugged  Golgotha  of  life. 

Not  theirs  the  pride  that  decked  the  lowly  man 
In  robes  of  purple,  and  a  mocking  crown  ; 

That  hurled  the  thunders  of  the  Vatican, 
And  blasted  Caesars  with  one  deadly  frown. 

Sweeter  the  song  of  yonder  tinkling  brook, 
Than    shouts    the    torrent    in    his    headlong 

path  ; 

64 


.       THE  DESERTED  CONVENT. 

Happier  the  daisy  in  her  woodland  nook, 
Than  giant  oak,  scarred  by  the  lightning's 
wrath. 

Call  not  their  little  lot  a  sluggish  dream, 
If  from  the  well-head  in  the  sheltered  glen, 

Its  bounty  stole  in  many  a  winding  stream 
To  bless  green  dales,  and  cottages  of  men. 

Ah  !  well  Religion  loves  the  cloister  sweet, 
And  while  she  fares  along  the  dusty  way, 

Seeks  oft  the  mountain-top  with  npiseless  feet. 
Where  with  the  Master  she  alone  may  pray. 

Then  let  the  heart  of  reverence  steal  around 
Each  spot  where'er  a  saintly  soul  has  trod  ; 

Be  mine  to  kneel  upon  the  hallowed  ground, 
And  lay  fresh  roses  on  the  mouldering  sod. 
MACAO,  1852. 

65 


EASTER   ON   MOUNT   OLIVET. 

\  T  morning  twilight,  when  the  dreaming  soul 
*  *•     Gropes  in  the  grey  of  dim  and  weird-like 

thought, 
A   sweet  voice   whispered  :    "  Lo  !    the   Christ 

hath  risen, 

And  walks  among  the  Olives."     In  glad  haste, 
Still  through  still  city,  and  adown  the  street 
Of  Sorrows,  crept  I  to  the  gate,  whose  stones 
Yet  weep  with  Stephen's  blood.     The  bearded 

guard 

Upturned  a  half-shut  eye  ;  near  broken  tomb 
Shivering,  a  Jewish  leper  slept.     All  slept  ; 
Only  the  wind  moaned  thro'  the  hollow  gorge, 
As  of  a  prophet  wailing  in  his  grave, 
And  the  leaf  quivered  on  the  gnarled  bough, 
Ghostlike  beside  dry  Kedron.     Up  I  clomb, 
And  with  me  clomb  the  mists,  white-winged, 

swift ; 

Till,  gazing  from  the  brow,  lo  !  a  wild  sea, 
They  surged  above  the  rock,  above  the  wall 
Of  the  lost  city  ;  tomb  and  topmost  tree, 
66 


EASTER  ON  MOUNT  OLIVET. 

Sank  sudden,  hoary  mosque  and  battlement ; 
And,  as  the  sailor  in  the  stormy  trough 
Sees  earth  nor  heaven,  but  crested  ocean  peaks, 
Swooping  upon  him,  so  stood  I  alone 
With  the  drear  hilltop  and  the  swallowing  mist. 
When  lo  !  this  music  sang  :  "  A  little  while, 
And  ye  shall  see  me";  then  the  shaping  cloud 
Seemed  struggling  to  a  smile,  a  deep,  soft  eye, 
And  brow  thorn-crowned,  and  from  each  thorny 

edge 

Trickled  a  drop  of  light.     "  I  am,"  it  said, 
"  One  who  left  heaven,  when  the  Christ  arose, 
Wearing,  so  love  I  Him,  the  face  He  wore, 
And  in  his  holy  foot-prints  aye  I  walk, 
Till  that  He  come  again  !     Behold  thou  now 
His  coming  messenger."     Thorough  the  wall 
Of  cloud,  a  sword  of  fire,  the  sunbeam  clove  ; 
It  smote  the  hilltop,  the  grey  olives  burned 
As  the  red  bush  of  Moses,  down  the  slopes 
Joyous  it  leaped,  till  calm  it  stayed  and  bathed 
In  wondrous  flood  the  lone  Gethsemane. 
Before  me,  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
Rose  up  the  gleaming  mount,  and  thro'  the 

gorge 

Out  to  the  hollow  waste  the  surly  mist 
67 


EA  S  TER  ON  MO  UNT  OLI VE  T. 

Fled,  as  a  baffled  monster  of  the  sea 
Back  to  his  caves. 

In  dumb,  deep  joy 

I  drank  the  vision,  when,  "  Behold  again  !  " 
Heard  I  the  bodiless  voice.     And  lo  !   no  more 
The  grey,  old  walls,  storm  riven,  and  barren 

hills, 

But  in  that  mystic  light  a  city  of  God, 
Unspeakable,  e'en  by  his  golden  lips 
Who  saw  the  Bride  of  Christ,  and  in  his  trance 
Fell  words  as  flashes  from  the  crystal  gates, 
And  sunlit  ripples  of  the  River  of  Life. 
But  mine  how  dumb  !  nor  can  I  know  or  tell 
The  image  of  my  joy  : — a  melody 
Dim  whispering  to  me  now,  as  if  I  stood 
Upon  a  lonely  shore,  and  heard  afar 
Snatches  of  song  still  billowing  on  the  breeze 
Over  a  moonlit  sea  : — a  towering  pile, 
That  crumbles  at  the  touch  of  after-thought, 
As  in  the  tropic  sunset  rise  afar, 
Fair  golden  palaces  'midst  groves  of  palm, 
Gleaming  and  gone  : — arched  court  and  pin- 
nacle 

Of  a  vast  Temple,  where  yon  Paynim  mosque 
Spurns  Sion,  and  a  dome  dashing  its  waves 
68 


EA  S  TER  ON  MO  UN  T  OLIVE  T. 

Of  light  o'er  walls  of  light :  about  it  walked 
Forms  wonderful ;  one  with  craggy  brow 
Like  Sinai,  and  a  veil  half  lifted  up  ; 
A  kingly  harper  chaunting  as  he  went ; 
An  eye  from  a  dark  mantle,  gazing  keen 
Into  the  cloud-rift  as  a  written  scroll  ; 
A  head,  grief-whitened,  but  a  crown  it  shone 
Of  silvery  rays  ;  gently  she  leaned  on  him, 
Who  leaned  on  the  Lord's  bosom,  and  with 

these 

New,  starry  groups,  as  when  the  watcher  sails 
Toward  the  Southern  Cross,  in  clusters  rich 
As  love  had  blent  their  torches,  and  afar 
Three  vapoury  piles,  that  are  the  golden  dust 
Of  starry  worlds. 

Then  in  my  waking  dream, 
Sang  I  this  matin  song.     Shine,  Easter  Sun, 
Risen  in  thy  strength !  O  City  of  my  God  ! 
Long  tombed  in   mists  of   sorrow,  from    the 

mount 
Where  oft  those  eyes  have  wept,  those  blessed 

knees 

Have  knelt,  thy  morning  breaks.      O  holy  hill, 
Beloved  above  all  hills  that  climb  to  heaven, 
Tho'  loftier  peaks  look  snow-clad  on  the  vales 
69 


EA  S  TER  ON  MO  UN  T  OLI VE  T. 

And  greener  slopes  smile  joyous,  holy  thou 
With  memories  undying  as  His  Love, 
Still  walking  here  ;  thou,  Kedron,  who  no  more 
Hearest  the  ripple  of  thy  wave  ;  ye  trees, 
Gnarled  with  grey  age,  bending  your  loving 

arms 

Over  the  garden,  ye  shall  wear  the  bloom 
Of  Easter  morning  on  this  mount  of  God. 
JERUSALEM,  1853. 


A  BUNCH  OF  FUCUS  NATANS,  GATH- 
ERED OFF  THE  AZORES. 

POOR  weed,  that  floatest  by 
A  pilgrim  o'er  the  desert  of  the  wave  ; 
A  lingering  bloom,  by  nature's  withered  grave 
Lifting  thy  smiling  eye  ! 

No  gardens  gave  thee  birth  ; 
Nor  knewest  thou  the  happy,  woodland  bowers, 
Where  sips  the  honey-bee,  and  sleep  the  flowers 

In  the  green  nests  of  earth. 

Child  of  the  ocean  hoar  ! 

Foam-born,  thou  drinkest  at  its  mighty  breast 
With  all  thy  hanging  roots,  and  without  rest 

It  rocks  thee  evermore. 

With  the  ship-wafting  breeze 
Thou  sail'st  a  mariner  to  Western  isles, 
By  Afric's  sands  or  where  the  swart  sun  smiles 

On  the  gay  Caribees. 


A  BUNCH  OF  FUCUS  X A  TANS. 

Poor  weed  !  thy  presence  tells 
The  mystery  of  Life  ;  the  murmuring  tide 
Of  Being,  that  thro'  every  channel  wide 

Of  shoreless  Nature  swells. 

In  the  mute  sand  it  sleeps, 
The  peopled  water-drop,  in  winds  that  bear 
Germs  to  the  lonely  heath,  in  swarming  air  ; 

In  the  vast  caverned  deeps, 

Where  joyous  verdure  curls 
Round  coral  grots,  gleaming  beneath  the  sea 
In  fields  of  light,  where  budding  nebulae 

Ripen  to  starry  worlds. 

And  what  are  we,  slight  thing  ! 
But  kindred  weeds,  upon  the  tossing  stream 
Of  human  life,  this  vexed,  half  waking  dream, 

Forever  wandering  ? 

November,  1851. 


72 


WRITTEN     IN    A    VOLUME    OF     LATI- 
MER'S    SERMONS. 

/CHIEFTAINS  of  England's  hero  race  !  whose 

V        life 

Wrestled  for  Christ,  and  in  the  burning  flame 
Walked  unconsumed  !      Still  have  we  kept 
your  name  ; 

But  where  the  spirit  that  shall  edge  our  strife  ? 

Within  our  halls  to-day  your  armour  hangs, 
The  rusted  pride  of  the  old  battle-field, 
The   empty   helm,  the    sleeping   spear   and 
shield  ; 

While  ever  and  anon  an  echo  clangs, 

As  if  your  stalwart  hands  the  war-note  pealed, 
Then  dies  away,  a  hollow  funeral  wail. 

Dwarfs  of  a  little  day  !  that  heavy  mail, 

That  sword  of  God  our  lean  arms  cannot  wield, 
Only  we  view,  awe-struck,  the  statue  vast, 
And  giant  thews  of  a  forgotten  Past. 

January,  1850. 

73 


OXFORD    TRACTS. 

0  MEDIAEVAL  sexton,  thou 
Who  would'st  in  decent  grave-clothes 

dress 

The  modern  century,  that  now 
Exults  in  savage  nakedness  : 

Whether  to  choose,  perplexing  case  ! 

The  sans-culotte  who  shameless  stands  ; 
Or  mummy,  with  his  yellow  face, 

Wrapt  in  a  hundred  swathing  bands  ? 

Thou  fool  !  who  thinkest  truth  is  cant, 

And  piety  is  gown  and  stole  ; 
What  the  irreverent  times  most  want, 

Is  not  a  surplice,  but  a  soul, 
o.  i 

74 


THE    SAGE    OF    THE    POLLEN. 

IN  the  fine  pollen  of  a  flower,  that  spread 
Its  petals  gay  o'er  a  potato-bed, 
A  wondrous  insect  had  his  dwelling. 
Unknown  to  barbarous  men  his  fame, 
But  world-embracing  was  his  name, 
If  we  their  glorious  insect  records  grant, 
As  the  all-into-nothing  crushing  Kant, 
Spinoza,  Fichte,  Hegel,  Schelling. 


of  animalcule  ages, 
So  say  their  great  cosmogonies,  chronologies, 
And  paleo-entomologies, 

Had  passed  since  out  of  Chaos  and  old  night 
These  mighty  races  sprang  at  first  to  light. 
High  bards  and  heaven-illumined  sages 
Had  borne  them  onward  till  the  earth 
Saw  now  its  ripe,  consummate  birth 
In  this  divinest  of  the  wise, 
This  prophet  of  the  grand  To-be,' 
In  whom  transcendent  truth  should  rise, 
Full-orbed  upon  the  animalculae. 
75 


THE  SAGE  OF  THE  POLLEN. 

His  early  infancy  the  wonder  saw 

Hid  in  the  acorn  of  his  soul ;  his  babble 

Was  Orphic  wisdom,  of  idea,  law, 

Of  pollen-life,  and  primal  flower-stalk  ; 

Far  from  the  empty  rabble 

Of  insect  youths,  his  walk 
Amidst  all  philosophic  thoughts  sublime  ; 
And  now  at  last  in  wisdom's  perfect  prime, 

Pupils  as  Plato's  bees,  glad  hung 

To  sip  the  honey  of  his  tongue. 

"  Listen  " — he  cried — "  O  animalculae  ! 
World-atoms  of  Infinity  ! 
Listen,  for  I  now  rehearse 
The  riddle  of  the  universe, 
Caught  by  a  few,  unconscious  seers, 
Dimly  thro'  the  elder  years. 
Ages  long  our  God-born  race 
Hath  swarmed  this  wondrous  dwelling-place, 
Yet  have  they  grovelled  for  a  season, 
As  if  creatures  of  the  dust, 
Not  heirs  of  the  Eternal  Reason  : 
Centuries  of  sloth  and  rust 
Despotic  priest  and  dogmatist 
On  childish  Bible  myth  insist ; 
76 


THE  SAGE  OF  THE  POLLEN. 

Nor  science  with  its  timorous  oar 

Hath  sailed  beyond  the  narrow  shore, 

Of  mysteries  ridiculous 

Still  prating,  occult  truth  extolling 
Above  our  reason  !  mysteries  to  us  ! 
The  incarnate  world-souls  of  the  pollen  ! 

Away  with  faded  faiths,  away  ! 

Upon  us  beams  the  perfect  day. 

Hath  not  the  insect  vision  trod 

Thro'  all  nature,  spirit,  God  ? 

Hath  not  our  science  now  unfurled 

All  the  mighty  pollen  world, 

Cycle  with  epicycle  whirled  ? 

Our  keen  Laplaces  and  Lagranges 

Mapped  heaven  in  '  mecanique  celeste  ' 

Our  gifted  Darwins  read  the  changes, 

Since  our  race  killed  off  the  rest  ? 

Now  waits  the  world  a  wisdom  yet 

Beyond  what  all  the  sages  wit. 

Listen  !  I  drop  the  riper  fruit : 

The  one  religion  absolute  ! 
All  things  within  the  ever-shifting  whole 
Are  but  the  reflex  of  the  Eternal  Me  ; 
The  one,  pervading  animalcule  soul  ; 
All  from  that  full,  unbottomed  fountain  roll, 
And  back  return  as  rivers  to  the  sea. 
77 


THE  SAGE  OF  THE  POLLEN. 

Through  each  form  the  Protean  God 

Passes  from  the  primal  fire  ; 

Still  from  out  the  heavy  clod, 

Thro'  all  subtle  changes  higher, 

In  the  flowering  plant  ascends, 

In  the  man  he  drops  the  ape, 

Till  at  last  each  grosser  shape 

In  its  perfect  Typus  ends  ; 
And  lo  !  revealed  the  Being  true  \ve  find, 
The  rational,  self-conscious  insect  mind. 

\Ve  are  the  glorious  world-flower  ;  we 

The  essence  of  Divinity  ; 

For  us  the  blooming  earth  is  given, 

For  us  the  ever-circling  heaven  ; 

Onward  through  the  ages  vast 

The  animalcule  soul  has  passed  ; 

Still  pour  its  golden  waves  along 

Of  art,  philosophy,  and  song. 

Till  reason  gain  its  holy  sway, 

All  myths  of  folly  fade  away  ; 
Then  shall  the  coming,  full-orbed  aeon  dawn 
Upon  this  pollen  universe  new-born, 
And  each  in  ripe  development  shall  be 
A  true,  incarnate,  insect  deity." 

January,  1852. 

7S 


THE    FRESHET. 

WET  !  wet !  wet ! 
Chaos  old  hath  come  again, 
And  the  goodly  world's  upset ! 
Moist  and  dry,  earth  and  sky 
Tumbled,  jumbled  all  together  : 
Who  is  clerk  now  of  the  weather  ? 
Under  whose  heavy  reign  are  we  ? 
It  is,  sure,  the  demons'  reign  : 
Pluto,  that  jailor  old,  is  napping, 
And  the  spirits  every  one 
Of  shower  and  mist,  of  spite  and  fun 
Are  up  and  out  on  a  jolly  lark  : 
Hear  them  at  the  chimney,  hark  ! 
With  their  fists  of  fiendish  rapping. 
Water  !  water  !  ghost  of  Pindar, 
Could'st  thou  from  this  dismal  window 
See  yon  river's  mighty  piston 
O'er  the  streets  its  deluge  fling, 
Nevermore  thy  lyre  should  sing 
That  absurd  "  vdoop  apiffror." 
79 


THE  FRESHET. 

Rain  !     Rain  ! 

Never  was  such  a  wondrous  May. 
Venerable  Mythos,  say, 

Man  of  1672, 

Twin-born  of  the  Charter  Oak, 
Tell  us  younger  Hartford  folk, 
Hast  thou  seen  so  moist  a  fact 
As  this  modern  cataract  ? 

"!Q  TTO/TOZ,     Of  I    O.I,   K)  CpEV  \ 

In  what  world,  pray,  are  we  thrown  ? 
Call  ye  this  the  temperate  zone, 

This  incorrigible  soaker  ? 
No  man,  but  a  wet  rag  am  I  ! 
Body  and  soul  have  got  the  cramp  ; 
Boots  and  coats  and  spirits  damp  ; 
All  the  starch  o'  the  world  is  out  ; 
Not  a  churchman,  high  and  dry, 
Not  remaining  a  dry  joker  : 
All  that  were  so  staunch  and  stout ; 
None  are  left,  except  the  sellers 
Of  Macintoshes  and  umbrellas. 

Rain  !     Rain  ! 

Never  was  such  a  flood  before, 
Since  that  old  sea  captain  Noah 
Built  him  a  safety  boat  of  gopher  ! 
So 


THE  FRESHET. 

Watchman,  on  the  state-house  vane  ! 
Tell  us,  tell  us  what  o'  the  night? 
'  I  saw  the  great  Connecticut, 
Swaggering  like  a  tipsy  loafer, 
Tumbling  left,  and  tumbling  right, 
Through  the  streets  of  Hartford  town  ; 
Storied  house  and  Irish  hut 
Bobbing  up  and  bobbing  down. 
I  saw  a  porpoise  smooth  his  head 
On  Mrs.  Jones'  best  feather-bed  ! 
I  saw  a  babe  in  a  crib  of  wicker 
Floating  along  like  infant  Moses  ; 
I  saw  old  topers  to  their  noses 
Steeped  in  a  most  unusual  liquor  : 
I  saw  a  thousand  salt-bags  sink, 
Overcome  with  mighty  drink  : 
I  saw  the  shad  up  Market  Street 
Swimming  each  on  his  own  hook  ; 
I  saw  a  grocer  smiling  look, 
As  he  watered  his  best  old  brandy-butt 
With  the  best  old  Connecticut ; 
I  saw  a  boy  on  a  chimney-top 
Angling  over  a  fruiterer's  shop  ; 
I  saw  a  parson  take  his  seat, 
Riding  all  serene  and  high, 
81 


THE  FRESHET. 

On  a  barrel  of  dry  discourses, 
The  only  things  that  can  stay  dry  : 
Cats  and  dogs,  and  men  and  horses, 
Pots  and  kettles,  neck  and  neck, 
Sinking,  drinking,  struggling,  bubbling, 
Soaking,  choking,  splashing,  smashing, 
All  the  world  a  floating  wreck  ! 
Woe  is  me  !  I  saw  and  sate 
On  my  lonely  Ararat ; 
And  I  cried  :  the  demons  rain  ! 
Chaos  and  night  are  come  again." 
May,  1856. 

82 


HUNGARY. 

AWAKE,  strong  heart  of  an  insulted  earth  ! 
Where  sleeps  thy  manhood  at  this  fearful 

hour? 
A  hero  nation,  writhing  at  its  birth, 

Strangled  within  the  coils  of  brutal  Power  ! 
Ah  !  shame  !  unpitying  Europe  stands, 
With  coldest  glance  and  folded  hands, 
While  on  the  bloody  field  pale  Hungary  lies  ; 
And  see  !  alas  !  with  sadly-lingering  eyes, 
As  fade  their  happy  plains  away, 
Afar  her  hunted  chieftains  stray, 
With  broken  swords  and  broken  prayer, 
Asking  of  Moslem  hearts  in  their  despair 
The  last,  poor  boon  by  Christian  men  denied, 
A  home,  a  grave,  their  war-worn  heads  to  hide. 

Not  fallen,  O  noble  land  !  tho'  now 

Trampled  beneath  a  despot  horde  ; 
A  conqueror  in  thy  suffering  thou  ! 
A  holier  strife  than  of  the  sword  ! 
83 


HUNGAR  Y. 

For  thee  the  stars  in  their  high  courses  fight  : 

For  thee  the  hills,  the  streams,  whose  ancient 
might 

Laughs  at  man's  fetters  as  it  seaward  rolls  ; 

For  thee,  the  hopes,  the  aims  of  deathless  souls. 
Rise,  Freedom,  from  the  living  Past, 
With  all  thy  sacred  legions  vast, 
From  Alpine  heights,  from  stormy  coast 
Of  the  long  ages,  see  !  they  march. 

Hear  ye  the  voice,  ye  crowned  traitors,  hear, 

And  tremble,  for  it  bodes  your  judgment-day  ! 
That  word,  once  breathed  upon  the  atmosphere 
Of  living  men,  shall  never  pass  away. 

Whispered  by  some  weak  lip,  now  dumb, 
It  echoes  thro'  the  years  to  come  ; 
Onward  it  rolls,  yet  louder,  louder  wakes 
The  mighty  music,  till  at  last  it  breaks 
In  volleying  thunders  ;  wild  and  deep 
Tosses  the  surge  o'er  cliffs  of  wrong  ; 
A  startled  nation  in  its  sleep 
Listens  and  knows  the  stern,  prophetic  song, 
The  tyrants' death-knell,  the  last  trumpet  peal; 
Lifts  its  glad  head  and  shakes  the  avenging 
steel. 

84 


HUNGAR  Y. 

Joy,  patriot  chiefs  !  for  souls  so  great 

No  idle  tears  to-day  we  shed  ; 
Ye  are  no  broken  tools  of  Fate  ; 
Rejoice,  for  Freedom  is  not  dead  ! 

A  life  eternal  she  within  her  bears  ; 

Hers  is  no  exile,  but  where'er  she  fares, 

All  climes,  all  noble  spirits  are  her  home. 

And  still,  tho*  far  your  toil-worn  feet  may  roam, 
Walks  Hungary  with  uplifted  eyes, 
Still  to  your  hero  ears  she  sings 
The  chaunt  of  her  high  destinies  ; 

A  glorious  rest  after  long  wanderings  ; 

A  nation  yet  to  be  ;  tho'  banished  now, 

Wearing  her  crown  upon  her  queenly  brow. 


THE    CENTURY    FLOWER. 

S  holy  night  !  in  slumber  pale 

The  dreaming  soul  of  nature  lies  : 
Now  lifts  the  flower  its  mystic  veil, 

And  flashes  morning  from  its  eyes. 
A  hundred  years  of  waning  earth  ! 

Of  frost  and  sunbeam,  blight  and  bloom  ; 
And  man,  who  saw  its  infant  birth, 
A  frailer  flower,  has  sought  the  tomb. 

A  hundred  years  !  what  empires  sped 

As  eddies  on  the  whirling  tide  ! 
Lands  ruled  beneath  Napoleon's  tread, 

And  greater  Goethe  sang  and  died. 
Yet  dumb,  in  shadowy  stillness  strange, 

Its  fringed  eyelids  wait  the  hour  ; 
Till  ripening  thro'  each  mighty  change, 

It  blooms,  Time's  rich,  full-opened  flower. 

A  hundred  years  !  the  soul  of  truth 
Has  fettered  lain  in  death-like  rest, 
86 


THE  CENTUX  Y  FLO  WER. 

Yet  lives  a  Thought,  its  budding  youth 
Wrapt  in  some  holy  prophet's  breast. 

It  dawns  !  the  spell  of  ages  breaks  ; 
Stately  it  towers  o'er  barren  men, 

A  world  of  perfumed  beauty  wakes, 
Then  drops  its  seed,  to  rise  again. 

1848. 

A  hundred  years  !  our  fathers  lie 

Calm  sleeping  on  the  field  of  toil ; 
We  build,  we  drive  the  plowshare  by, 

Heedless  of  aught  beneath  the  soil. 
Silent  thro'  day,  thro'  lingering  night 

Still  grew  the  bud  : — but  see  !  the  morn 
See  !  burst  the  glorious  petals  white, 

And  Freedom's  Century  Flower  is  born. 

April,  1864. 

87 


THE    BURIAL   AT   GETTYSBURG. 

A  VOICE  as  of  the  ocean  surge  ! 
I  see  a  mighty  nation  tread, 
With  banners  drooped  and  funeral  dirge 

Within  the  city  of  the  dead. 
On  yonder  slope  but  yesterday 

Clashed    steel    with    steel,   and   breast   with 

breast  ; 

And  tossed  the  battle's  blood-red  spray 
O'er  hosts  \vho  now  in  silence  rest. 

Kneel,  mother  land,  in  broken  prayer, 

To  kiss  the  dear,  the  holy  ground  ! 
See  strong  men  weep  like  children  there, 

Spelling  in  vain  each  nameless  mound. 
And  far,  by  Erie's  waters  deep, 

Or  in  the  solemn  woods  of  Maine, 
The  gray  sire  dreams  in  troubled  sleep 

Of  one  who  comes  not  home  again. 

Sword  of  the  Lord  ! — the  bitter  cry 

From  many  a  bleeding  wound  shall  start — 


THE  BURIAL  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

Rest  in  thy  scabbard,  rest !  ah  no  ! 

False  sons  have  stabbed  a  mother's  heart. 
As  breaks  the  thunders'  gathered  roar, 

I  hear,  I  hear  a  people's  cry 
From  stormy  cliff  and  sounding  shore — 

No  peace,  no  peace  till  Treason  die. 

No  !  by  the  sacred  toils  of  all 

Who  laid  with  no  cement  but  truth 
The  stones  of  our  Cyclopean  wall  : 

No  !  by  the  hopes  of  giant  youth  ! 
No  !  by  the  red  blood  crime  hath  spilt : 

No  !  by  this  heirdom  of  the  free  ! 
Bare  the  bright  sword  ;  swear  on  the  hilt, 

These  years  of  wrong  no  more  shall  be. 

Chaunt  ye  not  now  the  requiem  sad  : 

Lift  ye  the  war-song,  clear  and  high  ! 
Sing,  till  it  stir  the  sleepers  glad, 

Who  'neath  these  crowded  hillocks  lie. 
Sing,  mother  land  !  ye  peaks  that  bloom 

With  wreaths  of  the  eternal  snow  ! 
Ye  primal  forests,  in  whose  womb 

Navies  of  oak  and  iron  grow  ! 


THE  BURIAL  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

Ye  prairies,  rich  with  nobler  grains 

Of  bearded  men,  of  free-born  sons  ! 
And  thou,  great  river,  thro'  whose  veins 

The  life-blood  of  our  heroes  runs  ; 
More  than  the  yellow  Tiber's  wave, 

Thy  banks  shall  gleam  with  deathless  fame 
Sing  with  thy  torrents,  of  the  brave, 

Who  died  to  keep  a  nation's  spotless  name. 

December,  1863. 

90 


THE    AFRICAN    COLOUR-SERGEANT. 

r*  LARES  the  volcano-breath  ; 
^J         Pours  the  red  sea  of  death 

From  Wagner's  yawning  hold, 

On  the  besiegers  bold. 
Twice  vain  the  wild  attack, 

Inch  by  inch,  stern  and  slow, 
Fights  the  torn  remnant  back, 
Face  to  the  foe. 

Yet  free  the  colours  wave, 
Borne  by  yon  Afric  brave, 

Above  the  storm-blast  higher  ; 

But  ah  !  that  flashing  fire  ! 
He  sinks — the  banner  falls 

From  the  faint,  mangled  limb  ; 
And  droop  to  mocking  walls 
The  star  folds  dim  ! 

Stay,  stay  the  taunting  laugh  : 
See  !  now  he  lifts  the  staff, 


THE  AFRICAN  COLOUR-SERGEANT. 

Clenched  in  his  close-shut  teeth  ; 
Crawls  from  red  heaps  beneath, 
Crowned  with  his  starry  robe, 

Till  he  the  ranks  has  found  : — 
"  Comrades  !  the  dear  old  flag 

Ne'er  touched  the  ground." 

O  deed,  so  pure,  so  grand, 

Sidney  might  clasp  thy  hand  ! 
O  brother  !  black  thy  skin, 
But  white  the  pearl  within  ! 

Man  !  who  to  lift  thy  race, 
Worthy,  thrice  worthy  art  : 

Clasps  thee  in  warm  embrace 
A  nation's  heart. 

December,  1863. 

92 


THE    BATTLE    OF    THE    DEAD    CID. 

[From  the  "  Cronica  del  Cid."] 

SILENT  sleeps  the  tented  city  ;   only  rings 
the  sentry's  tread  : 
Stand  I  long  in  frosty  starlight,  dreaming  back 

the  stately  dead  : 
And  I  cry  with  restless  longing — Might  to-day 

some  elder  ghost, 
From  the  cloudland  of  the  heroes  wake  to  lead 

the  bannered  host ! 
Then  as  clang  of  answering  trumpet,  thro'  the 

hollow  gorge  of  yore, 
Comes  the  legend  of  the  battle,  of  the  dead 

Campeador. 
Woe  the  day  for  thee,  Valencia  !      Close  the 

Moorish  pennons  fly, 
As  the  white -caps  of  the  billows,  when   the 

storm-wind  dashes  high  : 
In    his    gilded    mail,    King    Bucar   'mid    his 

swarthy  thousands  lay, 
And  he  laughs,  in  dreams  of  triumph,  at  the 

breaking  of  the  day. 
93 


THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  DEAD  CID. 

But  no  sleep  is  in  the  city  ;    thro'  the  street 

stole  faces  white  ; 
At  St.  Mary's  half-lit  altar,  masses  wailed  that 

sable  night  : 
There  were  prayers  upon  the  cross-hilt ;  women 

knelt  in  moaning  fear, 
For  the  Cid,  the  sword  of  battle,  lay  in  silence 

on  the  bier. 
Then  his  parting  word  they  whispered,  "  Tell 

ye  none  that  I  am  dead, 

Place  me  upright  in  the  saddle,  wave  the  ban- 
ner o'er  my  head  ; 
Ride  ye  forth,  my  brave  Bermudez  ;    ride  ye 

dauntless,  for  I  wis 

I  shall  win  my  stoutest  battle.     God  the  mor- 
row, grants  me  this." 
In    his    ivory   chair   they  found    him  :    all    in 

silence  gazed  and  feared  ; 
Shot  his  starry  eyes,  wide  open,  from  above  the 

snowy  beard  ; 
Firm    his    flesh   and    passing   comely,  by   the 

Soldan's  balsam  kept ; 
And  the  hero  smiled  as  when  a  victor  on  the 

bloody  field  he  slept. 
Then  in  sendal  green  they  robed  him  ;   on  the 

burnished  cresses  prest  ; 
94 


THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  DEAD  CID. 

Rich  he  shone  in  blazoned  surcoat,  and  the 

red  cross  on  his  breast ; 
On   his   head   a   parchment   helmet,    cunning 

veined  like  gleaming  steel : 
God  !  a  conqueror  undying,  rose  my  Cid  from 

head  to  heel ! 
Joyous    danced    the    ancient    banner,   joyous 

Bavieca  neighed, 
And  the  darkling  path  was  lighted  by  Tizona's 

flashing  blade. 
Silent  mount  the  knights  around  him  ;  through 

Valencia's  gate  they  stream  ; 
Silent  where  the  white  tents  glisten,  sweeping 

like  a  ghastly  dream  ; 
Silent  as  the  frost  of  midnight  falls  upon  the 

flowery  brake  : 
Hark  the  tambour  !  hark  the  terror  !   'tis  the 

Cid  !  the  Cid  !  awake  ! 
Vainly  leaps  the  maddened  Bucar  :  vain  the 

awe-struck  army  flies  : 
Thro'  the  morning  mists  as  sunbeams,  smite 

those  stern,  pursuing  eyes  ; 
And  beside  him,  lo  !    a  chieftain  on  a  snow- 
white  charger  came, 
In  his  hand  a  snow-white  banner,  and  a  sword 

of  scorching  flame. 
95 


THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  DEAD  CID. 

Santiago  !   Santiago  !    lo  !   the  glorious  day  is 

won  ! 
On  the  drifting  wreck  of  battle  bursts  the  red, 

exulting  sun  ! 
Gold  and  jewels,  tents  and  corpses  : — and  afar 

King  Bucar's  pride, 
As  a  flock  of  screaming  sea-gulls,  dips  below 

the  ebbing  tide  ! 

Lift  thy  lids  to-day,  Mount  Vernon  !  where  our 

Greatest  rests  no  more  ; 
But  within  his  marble  coffin,  starts  to  hear  the 

cannon's  roar  ; 
Dreams  he  of  his  broken  country,  dreams  he 

in  heroic  pain  : 
And  methinks  his  voice  is  calling  : — Raise  my 

palsied  bones  again  : 
Plant  me  upright  in  the  saddle,  bare  the  sword 

within  my  hand  ; 
Let  these  ashes  lead  the  battle,  to  redeem  a 

noble  land  ! 
O  !  my  country  !  God  thro'  trial  bring  the  man 

as  pure,  as  strong  ! 
O  !  blind  giant,  shorn  and  fettered  by  thy  little 

masters  long  ! 

96 


THE  BA  TTLE  OF  THE  DEAD  CID. 

Grinding  still  for  greedy  factions,  groping  dim 

thro'  years  of  sleep  ; 
Long  enow  the  lazy  currents  in  thy  drowsy 

veinlets  creep  ; 
Long  enow  thine  iron  manhood  eaten  hangs 

by  selfish  rust ; 
Wake  again  that  mighty  spirit!    stand   erect 

that  hero  dust ! 
For  a  hundred  living  pigmies  not  to-day  shall 

victory  win, 
As  a  hero's  parchment  helmet,  with  a  hero's 

soul  within  ! 

March,  1864. 

97 


THE    GRASS-GROWN  RAMPART. 

STAND  with  me  on  this  grassy  mound  ; 
A  battle-field,  a  bloody  grave  ! 
To-day  the  nodding  harvests  wave 
Their  mimic  banners  o'er  the  ground. 

See  !  in  yon  trench,  whose  broken  crest 
Sank  'neath  the  angry  cannon  wheel, 
A  troop  of  conquering  daisies  steal, 

And  on  the  very  summit  rest. 

And  on  this  slope,  where  thickest  fell 
The  rain  of  death  that  stormy  day, 
I  see  the  laughing  children  play 

With  fragments  of  a  rusty  shell. 

Long  mused  I  there.     Within  my  ear 
Rang  thy  sad  voice,  O  gentle  Lord  ! 
"  Not  peace,  I  come  to  bring  a  sword  ": 

But  now  I  read  their  meaning  clear. 

No  Peace,  till  Thy  cause  conquereth  ; 

No  peace  on  earth,  till  Wrong  and  Right 
98 


THE  GRASS-GROWN  RAMPART. 

Have  wrestled  in  their  mortal  fight ; 
Then  peace  from  war,  then  life  from  death  ! 

Stand  on  the  battle-field  of  thought ! 
A  lurid  waste,  and  through  the  strife 
Now  truth,  now  error  ;  a  great  life 

Torn  headlong,  vanishing  in  naught. 

Vain  sceptic  !  never  truth  has  died  ; 
No  Saviour  who  himself  could  save, 
Yet  every  victim  from  the  grave 

Breaks  like  the  Master  glorified. 

Welcome  the  battle  !     Earth-born  lies 

Arm  still  their  crowned  and  mitred  powers. 
Let  God  take  care  of  peace.     Be  ours 

The  tears  of  blood,  the  sacrifice. 

Rest  never  !     Let  mine  heart  repeat 
Thy  cry,  brave  Arnauld  !     "  Have  I  not 
Eternity  to  rest  in  ?"     What 

Repose  like  this,  well-learned  and  sweet  ? 

So  God  sends  peace.     New  harvests  bloom 
Out  of  our  sweat,  our  pain,  our  toil, 
Flowers  nestle  in  the  furrowed  soil, 

And  children  play  on  our  green  tomb. 
1869.  99 


GUISEPPE  MAZZINI. 


R 


EST,  fiery  heart,  at  length  ! 
Roman  of  elder  race,  thy  life-blood  poured 
For  the  pure  commonweal,  thy  dying  strength 
Grasping  the  broken  sword  ! 

A  grey-haired  dreamer  still 
In  a  changed  world  ;  grave,  proud  and  passion- 
ate, 
Steel  eating  out  its  scabbard  ;  Titan  will 

Sternly  defying  fate. 

Yet  in  thy  visions  high, 

Like  all  great  dreamers,  hast  thou  kept  the  faith 
Of  virgin  youth  in  God,  in  liberty 

'Mid  dungeon  walls  or  death. 

While  foreign  gamesters  played 
For  thy  fair  Italy  ;  and  priestly  ban 
Palsied  her  sons,  and  a  crowned   phantom 
swayed 

The  Christian  Vatican, 
100 


GUISEPPE  MAZZINI. 

Thine  the  unfaltering  voice 
Of    Rome's  last  freeman.     Let  a  conquering 

might 

Bribe  all  the  gods  to  silence  ;  Cato's  choice 
"    Be  with  the  conquered  Right ! 

Thy  doom  an  exile  sore, 
With  Dante  "  climbing  up  another's  stairs," 
Yet  Rome  thy  Holy  Land,  Rome  evermore 
The  temple  of  thy  prayers. 

Peace,  weary  heart !  not  vain 
That  dream  of   waiting   manhood,  withering 

years  ; 

It  comes,  the  fruit  of  all  heroic  pain, 
Of  toil  and  bloody  tears. 

Ah  yes  !  some  happier  day 
Shall  a  fond  people  bear  thine  ashes  home, 
To  hoard  them  in  its  urn,  and  proudly  lay 
Within  a  new-born  Rome, 

Where  !  'neath  the  Palatine 
Breaks  the  primeval  city  from  its  graves, 
And  its  immortals  wake  to  hail  the  line 
Of  sons  no  longer  slaves  ! 

March,  1872. 


1 875, 

TWELVE  !  on  the  midnight  silence 
Smites  slow  the  drowsing  bell, 
As  if  God's  hand  were  tolling 
The  dead  world's  funeral. 

I  sate  in  my  empty  study 

And  gazed  in  the  flickering  fire, 

As  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling 
Climb  the  tall  shadows  higher. 

And  as  to  the  scared  Eelshazzar, 

A  phantom  finger  came, 
And  traced  on  the  wall  before  me 

Figures  of  cloudy  flame. 

Methinks  in  the  changing  picture 

Faces  I  knew  appear  ; 
And  each  in  the  still  procession 

Turns  as  he  passes  near. 

I  see  the  Past  sweep  o'er  me, 
As  to  the  drowning  man 


The  whirling  years  are  gathered 
Within  a  moment's  span. 

Yes  !  'tis  my  youth's  bright  playmates 
Who  laughed  in  the  sunrise  rays  ; 

Long,  long  ago  they  vanished 
At  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

Now  lo  !  as  the  frost  of  night-time 
Shrivels  the  glancing  dew, 

Change  they  to  palsied  grey-beards, 
A  lean  and  ghastly  crew  ! 

See  !  one  in  childhood  singing 

A  lark  in  upper  sky, 
With  chains  of  gold  now  fettered, 

A  slave  he  totters  by. 

Here  one,  a  gay,  bold  athlete, 
Crawls  on  with  gouty  limb, 

And  the  coals  of  wasting  passion 
Glare  in  those  ashes  dim. 

And  there  a  dear  loved  maiden 
Creeps  now  a  wrinkled  crone, 

Thro'  her  painted  mask  is  looking 
An  eye  of  soulless  stone. 
103 


1875- 

See  one,  whose  skinny  fingers 
Clutch  at  a  laurel  crown  ; 

In  bitter  rage  he  grasps  it 

But  drop  the  handfuls  brown. 

See  !  there  that  fleshless  spectre, 
Eyes  from  the  sockets  gone, 

Wears  his  bare  skull  a  mitre 
And  flaunts  the  Bishop's  lawn. 

And  from  his  tongue  long  palsied, 
As  he  drones  his  dreary  prayer, 

A  slimy  snake  creeps  coiling 
About  his  thin,  white  hair 

What  are  ye,  grisly  phantoms, 
That  o'er  my  memory  stream  ? 

Where  is  the  thoughtful  prophet 
To  read  my  bodeful  dream  ? 

What  are  ye,  grisly  phantoms  ? 

Then  as  the  autumn  blast 
An  angry  wail  came  shrieking, 

"Ghosts  of  the  vanished  Past." 

Then  sank  that  fiery  horror 
Within  the  ashes  cold  ; 
104 


1 875. 

And  lo  !  on  the  soft,  fair  radiance 
New  faces  I  behold. 

I  see  the  pale-browed  scholar, 

Who  has  worshipped  God's  own  truth. 
Brave  souls,  who  had  not  bartered 

For  gold  their  golden  youth. 

I  see  the  meek,  true  comrades, 
Who  bore  the  scars  of  strife  ; 

The  pinching  want,  the  sorrows, 
The  thankless  loads  of  life. 

Methinks,  as  in  Giotto's  pictures 
Those  lights  of  evening  play, 

As  a  halo  of  gold  and  crimson, 
Around  their  foreheads  grey. 

Methinks  in  the  magic  firelight 
As  the  youths  of  old  they  trod, 

And  there  was  walking  with  them 
One  like  a  Son  of  God. 

And  a  soft  voice  murmured  o'er  me 
Like  the  Old  Year's  passing  breath, 

"The  unseen  is  eternal ; 

Its  years  can  know  no  death." 
105 


CAROLS. 


CHRISTMAS. 

RING  out  the  bells  for  Christmas  ! 
The  happy,  happy  day  ! 
In  winter  wild,  the  Holy  Child 

Within  the  cradle  lay  ; 
Oh,  wonderful !  the  Saviour 

Is  in  a  manger  lone  ; 
His  palace  is  a  stable, 

And  Mary's  arms  His  throne. 

On  Bethlehem's  quiet  hillside, 

In  ages  long  gone  by, 
In  angel  notes  the  Glory  floats, 

Glory  to  God  on  high  ! 
Yet  wakes  the  sun  as  joyous 

As  when  the  Lord  was  born, 
And  still  He  comes  to  greet  you 

On  every  Christmas  morn. 

Where'er  His  sweet  lambs  gather 

Within  this  gentle  fold, 
The  Saviour  dear  is  waiting  near, 

As  in  the  days  of  old  : 
109 


CHRISTMAS. 

In  each  young  heart  you  see  Him 

In  every  guileless  face, 
You  see  the  Holy  Jesus, 

Who  grew  in  truth  and  grace. 

In  many  a  darksome  cottage, 

In  many  a  crowded  street, 
In  winter  bleak,  with  shivering  cheek 

The  homeless  child  you  meet  ; 
Gaze  on  the  pale,  wan  features, 

The  feet  with  wandering  sore, 
You  see  the  souls  He  loveth, 

The  Christ-child  at  the  door. 

Then  sing  your  gladsome  carols, 

And  hail  the  new-born  sun  ; 
For  Christmas  light  is  passing  bright, 

It  smiles  on  every  one. 
And  feast  Christ's  little  children, 

His  poor,  His  orphan  call ; 
For  He  who  chose  the  manger, 

He  loveth  one  and  all. 


1861. 


CHRISTMAS. 

OOFTLY  the  night  is  sleeping 
^     On  Bethlehem's  peaceful  hill ; 
Silent  the  shepherds  watching, 

The  gentle  flocks  are  still. 
But,  hark  !  the  wondrous  music 

Falls  from  the  opening  sky  ; 
Valley  and  cliff  re-echo, 

Glory  to  God  on  high  ! 
Glory  to  God  !  it  rings  again  : 
Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Day  in  the  East  is  breaking  ; 

Day  o'er  the  crimsoned  earth  ; 
Now  the  glad  world  is  waking, 

Glad  in  the  Saviour's  birth  ! 
See,  where  the  clear  star  bendeth 

Above  the  manger  blest  ; 
See,  where  the  infant  Jesus 

Smiles  upon  Mary's  breast. 
Glory  to  God  !  we  hear  again  : 
Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 

Come  with  the  gladsome  shepherds, 

Quick  hastening  from  the  fold  ; 
Come  with  the  wise  men  pouring 

Incense  and  myrrh  and  gold  : 
Come  to  Him,  poor  and  lowly, 

Around  the  cradle  throng  ; 
Come  with  your  hearts  of  sunshine, 

And  sing  the  angels'  song, 
Glory  to  God  !  tell  out  again  : 
Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

Wave  ye  the  wreaths  unfading, 

The  fir-tree  and  the  pine, 
Green  from  the  snows  of  winter, 

To  deck  the  holy  shrine  ; 
Bring  ye  the  happy  children  ! 

For  this  is  Christmas  morn  ; 
Jesus,  the  sinless  Infant, 

Jesus,  the  Lord,  is  born. 
Glory  to  God,  to  God  again  : 
Peace,  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men 
1861. 


EASTER. 

JOY  to  the  World  !  fresh  joy 
Dawns  on  its  second  birth 
And  with  the  Risen  Lord 
Rises  again  the  earth  ! 
All  things  Thy  power  obey, 
Victor  divine  o'er  death  ! 
All  hail  Thy  holy  day 
With  living  breath. 

Now  heaven  is  passing  fair  ; 

Calmer  the  restless  main  ; 
More  softly  steals  the  air 

Over  the  smiling  plain  ; 
Each  withered  flower  awakes 

From  winter  sleep  to  bloom, 
Each  gladsome  torrent  breaks 

Its  icy  tomb. 

Life  conquers  death  !     Arise, 

O  race  of  ransomed  men  ! 

"3 


EASTER. 

Your  long-lost  Paradise 
Opens  in  joy  again  ; 

See  !  where  the  living  Lord 
Stands  at  the  happy  door  : 

The  cherubs'  flaming  sword 
Guards  it  no  more. 

1869. 

114 


EASTER. 

CHRIST  hath  arisen  ! 
Death  is  no  more  ! 
Lo  the  white-robed  ones 

Sit  by  the  door. 
Dawn,  golden  morning, 

Scatter  the  night ! 
Haste,  ye  disciples  glad, 
First  with  the  light. 

Break  forth  in  singing, 

O  world  new-born ! 
Chaunt  the  great  Easter-tide, 

Christ's  holy  morn. 
Chaunt  Him,  young  sunbeams, 

Dancing  in  mirth  ! 
Chaunt,  all  ye  winds  of  God 

Coursing  the  Earth  ! 

Chaunt  Him,  ye  laughing  flowers, 
Fresh  from  the  sod  ; 


RASTER. 

Chaunt  Him,  wild  leaping  streams, 

Praising  your  God  ! 
Break  from  thy  winter, 

Sad  heart,  and  sing  ! 
Bud  with  thy  blossoms  fair  ; 

Christ  is  thy  spring. 

Come  where  the  Lord  hath  lain, 

Past  is  the  gloom  : 
See  the  full  eye  of  day 

Smile  through  the  tomb. 
Hark  !  angel  voices 

Fall  from  the  skies  : 
Christ  hath  arisen, 

Glad  heart,  arise  ! 
1861. 

116 


EASTER    CAROL. 

WAKE  to-day,  ye  gladsome  voices  ! 
Wake  the  song  that  angels  sing  ; 
Heaven  is  bright,  and  earth  rejoices  ; 
Christ  is  risen,  the  Lord  and  King  ! 
Roll  away  the  stone  that  bound  Him  ; 
Lift  your  heads,  ye  gates  of  gloom, 
See  the  shining  ones  around  Him  ; 
Morning  floods  the  empty  tomb. 

See  !  He  opes  the  heavenly  city  ; 

There  the  Lamb  is  all  the  light ; 
See  the  walls  of  gleaming  jasper  ; 

There  is  day  that  hath  no  night. 
There  no  sickness  is  nor  dying, 

Fadeless  flower  the  blissful  years  ; 
There  no  more  of  pain  or  crying, 

God  shall  wipe  away  the  tears. 

From  the  throne  a  crystal  river 

Doth  through  greenest  meadows  glide  ; 
117 


EASTER  CAROL. 

'Neath  the  tree  of  life  forever 

Walks  the  Lord,  His  saints  beside 

Ended  all  their  cares,  their  trials, 
Robes  of  spotless  white  they  wear 

Ever  from  their  golden  vials 

Rise  the  odours  sweet  of  prayer. 

Now  before  Him  bend  they  lowly  ; 

Now  the  song  of  love  they  pour, 
Saying,  Holy  !  Holy  !  Holy  ! 

Lord  and  Saviour  evermore  ! 
Ring  ye  out  that  hymn  unending, 

Roll,  ye  angel  tides,  along  ; 
Earth  to-day  with  you  is  blending 

In  one  wave  of  joyous  song. 
1862. 

ITS 


SPANISH    HYMN. 

[From  the  Hymnal  of  the  "  Iglesia  de  Jesus."     Mexico.] 

WHY  leavest  Thou  Thy  sheep, 
Good  shepherd  !  'mid  this  darkling 

vale  forlorn, 
In  loneliness  to  weep  ? 
And  Thou  thro'  aether  borne, 
Afar  to  the  immortal  rest  art  gone  ? 

What  can  these  rapt  eyes  see 
On  which  the  beauty  of  Thy  face  has  shone, 

That  shall  not  joyless  be  ? 

Who  Thy  sweet  voice  has  known, 
To  him  all  else  has  deaf  and  tuneless  grown. 

Upon  these  tossing  seas 
Who  shall  the  bridle  lay  ?  whose  hand  beside 

Stay  the  mad,  angry  breeze  ? 

If  Thou  Thy  presence  hide, 
What  pilot  else  to  the  fair  haven  guide  ? 
119 


SPANISH  HYMN. 

Ah  !  envious  cloud,  ah  !  why 
Canst  thou  our  short-lived  joy  so  soon  betray? 

Ah  !  whither  wilt  thou  fly  ? 

What  wealth  thou  bear'st  away  ; 
How  blind,  how  poor,  we  who  behind  thee  stay  ! 


ANCIENT  CHRISTIAN    HYMNS. 


CHILDREN    IN    PARADISE. 

PRAISE  to  Thee,  O  God  our  Father, 
-*•         From  the  mouths  of  babes  shall  flow 
Who  in  greenest  fields  of  heaven 
As  the  spotless  Lambkins  grow. 

By  the  Spirit's  voice  aye  guided 
'Neath  the  trees  of  life  they  feed  : 

Gabriel,  the  angel  shepherd, 
Doth  the  flock  forever  lead. 

High  are  they  and  passing  lovely 
More  than  saints  or  virgin  host : 

Children  of  our  God  the  dearest, 
Nurslings  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Heavenly  playmates,  there  they  mingle 
Happy  with  the  Sons  of  Light : 

Dwellers  of  the  sinless  city, 

Far  from  this  sad  world  of  night. 
123 


CHILDREN  IN  PARADISE. 

At  the  blessed  Easter's  daybreak 
Newly  clad  they  wake  to  mirth, 

Now  for  them  their  happy  freedom 
Darkened  by  no  stains  of  earth. 

Short  below  life's  little  morning, 

For  they  live  in  Eden  fair  ; 
Ah  !  our  old  hearts  yearn  how  fondly 

Soon  again  to  find  them  there. 
1863.  ST.  EPHRAIM  (Syriac), 

[From  the  German  version  of  Zwingli.] 


124 


LUCIS    LARGITOR   SPLENDIDE. 

ALL-GLORIOUS  Giver  of  the  light, 
In  whose  unclouded  ray, 
After  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
Blooms  the  new-risen  day  ! 

Thou  art  the  world's  true  morning-star, 

Not  he,  that  lesser  one, 
Twinkling  a  feeble  speck  afar, 

Pale  herald  of  the  sun. 

O  brighter  than  the  noontide  gleam  ; 

Day,  sun  full-orbed  Thou  art, 
Piercing  with  Thine  eternal  beam 

The  cloisters  of  the  heart. 

Builder  of  living  worlds,  draw  nigh  ! 

Smile  of  the  Father's  face  ; 
Our  happy  souls  wide  open  lie 

To  Thy  soft-coming  grace. 

Filled  with  Thy  Spirit,  may  we  keep 
God's  presence  aye  within  ; 
125 


LUCIS  L  ARC  I  TOR  SPLEXDIDE. 

Nor  through  these  hallowed  portals  creep 
The  stealthy  feet  of  sin. 

Amidst  thick-coming  cares,  that  fill 

The  hours  of  daily  time, 
Our  law  shall  be  Thy  perfect  will, 

Our  conscience  clear  of  crime  ! 

With  virgin  shame  may  the  chaste  mind 
Our  earth-born  passions  chain  ; 

And  in  this  body,  pure  enshrined, 
The  Holy  Ghost  remain. 

Be  this  glad  hope  our  matin  song, 

This,  Lord,  our  sacrifice  ! 
O  morning  light,  through  midnight  long 
Watch  with  unsleeping  eyes  ! 

HILARY. 
1859. 


BEATA    NOBIS    GAUDIA. 

/^  LADSOME  feast !  of  all  most  dear, 
^J       Circling  with  the  sacred  year  ; 
When  upon  the  waiting  host 
Burning  fell  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Quivering  like  a  cloven  tongue, 
Heavenly  light  above  them  hung  ; 
On  their  lips  a  word  it  came, 
In  their  hearts  a  living  flame. 

Now  in  every  voice  they  spake  ; 
Awed  the  listening  heathen  shake  ; 
Theirs  no  fire  of  maddening  wine, 
Drank  they  from  the  cup  divine. 

Mystic  truth  !  to  Israel  old, 
In  the  Paschal  symbol  told  ; 
When  the  closing  Jubilee 
Set  the  happy  bondsmen  free. 
127 


BE  A  TA  NOB  IS  GA  UDIA. 

God  of  boundless  Pity,  now 
With  a  lowly  face  we  bow  ; 
Give  Thy  Spirit  from  above, 
With  the  largess  of  Thy  love. 

Thou,  whose  gracious  tides  could  pour 
On  those  hallowed  hearts  before  ; 
Let  our  sinful  bondage  cease, 
Bring  our  Jubilee  of  peace. 

HILARY. 
1859. 

128 


AURORA    LUCIS    RUTILAT. 

MORNING  purples  now  the  skies  ; 
Warbles  heaven  with  harmonies  ; 
Earth  in  jubilee  rejoices  ; 
Groaneth  hell  with  angry  voices. 

Lo  !  awakes  th'  Almighty  King  : 
Death  lies  bruised  and  grovelling ; 
Stfaking  Hades  with  His  tread, 
Leads  He  forth  the  unfettered  dead. 

He  in  rocky  prison  barred, 
Slumbering  'neath  the  keen-eyed  guard, 
Conqueror  from  His  funeral  gate, 
Marches  with  triumphal  state. 

Loosed  the  pains  of  souls  below, 
Hushed  are  all  the  sighs  of  woe  ; 
And  the  gleaming  angel  cries  : 
"  See  the  living  Lord  arise  ! " 

ST.  AMBROSE. 
1860. 

129 


STERNA    CHRISTI    MUNERA. 

"PTERNAL  offerings  of  the  Son  : 
•L'       Trophies  by  martyr  valor  won  ; 
For  these  the  homage  of  our  praise 
We  yield  in  our  rejoicing  lays. 

Kings  of  the  holy  churches  crowned, 
Chiefs  on  her  famous  battle-ground, 
Guards  in  the  palace  of  the  King, 
True  stars  the  world  illumining. 

Above  the  fear  of  man  upborne, 
Trampling  the  flesh  in  noble  scorn, 
A  holy  death  to  them  was  gain 
The  life  eternal  to  obtain. 

Meek  sufferers  !  in  the  burning  pile, 
Or  torn  by  savage  teeth  they  smile  ; 
In  maddening  rage  the  torturer  stands, 
And  brutal  weapons  arm  his  hands. 
130 


STERNA   CHRISTI  MUNERA. 

Bare  hang  the  mangled  limbs,  and  wide 
Pours  every  wound  its  sacred  tide  ; 
Yet  all  untouched  amidst  the  strife, 
The  grace  of  an  immortal  life. 

The  faith  that  fires  the  saintly  still, 
The  yearning  hope  no  doubt  can  kill, 
The  perfect  love  of  Christ,  the  Lord, 
Has  triumphed  o'er  the  foeman's  sword. 

In  them  the  Father's  glory  shone  ; 
In  them  Christ's  lowly  will  is  done  ; 
In  them  exults  the  Holy  Ghost, 
And  smiles  with  joy  the  heavenly  host. 

Redeemer,  grant  Thy  servants'  prayer ; 
Grant  us  Thy  holy  cross  to  bear, 
And  in  the  noble  army  found, 
With  palms  of  endless  life  be  crowned. 

ST.  AMBROSE. 
1860. 


O!    GENS    BEATA    CCELITUM. 

0  HAPPY  ones  of  heavenly  race  ! 
-Bright  phalanx  of  the  holy  powers 
What  overflowing  fulness  showers 
Upon  you  from  the  Fount  of  Grace  ! 
The  Highest  Lord,  His  solace  best 
Hath  given  to  you,  ye  spirits  blest  : 
Vision  of  our  eternal  rest. 

Before  the  splendour  of  your  light 
The  quivering  lamps  of  heaven  pale  ; 
The  royal  sun  himself  doth  fail, 
And  all  the  marvels  of  the  night  : 
And  if,  beyond  these  feeble  eyes 
More  golden  suns  than  ours  arise, 
Dark  are  they  to  your  upper  skies. 

Forms  as  the  crystal,  pure  of  stain, 
Your  minds  of  piercing  thought  enfold  ; 
And  as  the  threads  of  finest  gold, 
Or  the  red  coral  every  vein  ; 
132 


0 1  GENS  BE  A  TA   CCELITUM. 

Thro'  these  the  gracious  life-blood  glows, 
And  sweeter  far  than  earthly  rose, 
Or  than  the  dropping  balm  it  flows. 

Ye  in  the  sinless  Eden  dwell, 
Wreathing,  as  pass  the  eternal  hours, 
Crowns  of  the  many-coloured  flowers, 
Lily  and  purple  daffodil ; 
One  only  blossom,  opening  there, 
Flings  thousand  sweets  upon  the  air, 
As  breath  of  your  own  spirits  rare. 

There  doth  the  Father's  table  stand, 
Ever  with  heavenly  banquet  graced, 
And  with  our  God  Himself  ye  feast, 
Tasting  rich  dainties  from  His  hand  : 
The  river  of  all  sweetness  rolls, 
Ambrosial  cates,  and  nectared  bowls  ; 
No  thirst,  no  hunger  for  your  souls. 

What  joys  that  happy  palace  throng  ! 
What  music  glad  that  world  inspires  ! 
The  harmony  of  myriad  lyres  ! 
All  voices,  yet  one  holy  song  : 
133 


0  !   GENS  BE  A  TA   CCELITUM. 

Breaks  in  full  tide  the  choral  strain  ; 
How  sweet,  how  soft  it  melts  again  : 
Earth  echoes  that  high  chant  in  vain. 

On  the  unveiled  God  ye  gaze, 
Seeing  His  presence  face  to  face  ; 
The  bliss  that  floods  the  holy  place, 
From  His  unshadowed  glory  rays  : 
Eye  cannot  pierce,  tongue  cannot  tell 
The  life  wherein  your  spirits  dwell  : 
To  the  dull  world  ineffable. 

ST.  AUGUSTIN. 
1859. 


QUID,  TYRANNE,  QUID   MINARIS? 

WHY,  O  tyrant  Sin  !  thy  raging  ? 
All  thy  bitter  woes  combine, 
All  thy  arts  of  malice  waging  ; 

Naught  are  these  to  love  divine. 
Sweet  to  me  is  every  torment, 
Feeble  is  the  power  of  pain  : 
Love  is  greater,  Love  is  stronger ; 
Better  death  than  earthly  stain. 

Light  the  cruel  pile  around  me, 

Smite  me  with  the  sharpest  sword  ; 
To  the  cross  of  anguish  bind  me, 

Dying  with  my  dying  Lord  : 
Sweet  to  me  is  every  torment, 

Feeble  is  the  power  of  pain  : 
Love  is  greater,  Love  is  stronger  ; 

Better  death  than  earthly  stain. 

Mild,  too  mild  for  Thee  my  trial ! 
Death  but  once,  how  brief  its  stroke  ! 
135 


QUID,    TYRANNE,  QUID  MINARIS? 

Mine  life's  cross  of  self-denial, 
Mine  to  bear  Thy  easy  yoke. 

Sweet  to  me  is  every  torment, 
Feeble  is  the  power  of  pain  ; 

Love  is  greater,  Love  is  stronger  : 
Better  death  than  earthly  stain. 
1859.  ST.  AUGUSTIN. 

136 


JAM   MCESTA   QUIESCE   QUERELA. 

NO  more,  ah,  no  more  sad  complaining  ; 
Resign  these  fond  pledges  to  earth  : 
Stay,  mothers,  the  thick-falling  tear-drops 
This  death  is  a  heavenly  birth. 

What  mean  these  still  caverns  of  marble, 
Fair  shrines  that  the  dear  ashes  keep  ? 

How  sweetly  they  tell  of  the  loved  ones, 
Not  dead,  but  soft  resting  in  sleep  ! 

What  though  on  the  pale,  icy  forehead, 
No  gleam  of  the  intellect  break  ? 

A  moment  it  slumbers,  till  nobler 
Its  powers  in  their  beauty  awake. 

Soon,  soon,  through  the  motionless  body, 
The  warm,  loving  life-tide  shall  pour, 

And  blushing  with  joy,  shall  revisit 
The  home  it  has  dwelt  in  before. 

These  clods,  'neath  the  hillock  reposing, 
Long  wasting  in  silent  decay, 
137 


JAM  MCESTA   QUIESCE  QUERELA. 

Shall  follow  the  souls  that  have  loved  them, 
On  winged  wings  soaring  away. 

So  green  from  the  seed  springs  the  blossom, 
Long  perished,  long  hid  in  the  mould  ; 

And  fresh  from  the  turf,  it  remembers 
The  wide-waving  harvests  of  old. 

Take,  Earth,  to  thy  bosom  so  tender, — 
Take,  nourish  this  body  ;  how  fair, 

How  noble  in  death  !  we  surrender 
These  relics  of  man  to  thy  care. 

This,  this  was  the  home  of  the  spirit, 
Once  built  by  the  breath  of  our  God  ; 

And  here  in  the  light  of  His  wisdom, 
Christ,  Head  of  the  risen,  abode. 

Guard  well  the  dear  treasure  we  lend  thee  : 
The  Maker,  the  Saviour  of  men, 

Shall  never  forget  His  beloved, 
But  claim  His  own  likeness  again. 

Speed  on,  perfect  year,  to  the  morning  ; 

God's  fulness  shall  dawn  on  the  just, 
And  thou,  open  Grave,  shall  restore  us 

This  holy,  unchangeable  dust. 

1859.  PRUDENTIUS. 

138 


DE   CRUCE   CHRISTI. 

[Crux  benedicta  nitet,  Dominus  qud  carne  pependit.] 

OLESSED  gleameth  the  cross,  where  hung 

-L'       the  Incarnate  Redeemer, 

And  in  His  blood  is  found  healing  for  every 

wound. 
Meekly  in  love  for  our  souls  the   Lamb  was 

the  innocent  victim, 
And  from  the  wolf's  fell  jaws  the  sheep  of  His 

pasture  He  draws. 
Pierced  were  the  holy  palms,  to  rescue  the 

world  from  its  ruin, 
And  in  His  own  sad  doom,  shuts  He  the  gate  of 

the  tomb. 
Here  that  hand  with  the  bloody  nails  to  the 

woo4  was  fastened, 
Which  a  Paul  from  his  sin,  Peter  from  death 

could  win. 
Mighty  in  fruitfulness,  O  thou  Tree  so  sweet 

and  so  noble, 

139 


DE  CRUCE  CHRISTI. 

How  do   thy  branches   bear,   fresh    blooming 

fruit  and  fair. 
Breathing   thy   rich   perfume,   the   dead   arise 

from  their  slumber, 
And  wake  to  the  fairer  day,  then  vanish  from 

earth  away. 

Never  scorches   the  summer  under  thy  wide- 
spreading  shadows, 
Never  the  noontide  light,  never  the  moon  by 

night. 
Beautiful  art  thou,  planted  where  still  waters 

are  flowing, 
Green    are    thy  leafy   showers,   mingled    with 

richest  flowers. 
Clingeth  to  thee  the  vine,  en  wrapt  in  thy  loving 

embraces  ; 
Sweetly  from  thee  doth  glide,  the  blood-red, 

life-giving  tide. 

1859.  FORTUNATUS. 

140 


NUNTIUM  VOBIS  FERO  DE  SUPERNIS 

TIDINGS  I  bear  from  heaven  of  joy  excel-, 
ling  ; 

Born  is  the  Christ,  Lord  of  this  earthly  dwell- 
ing, 

In  Bethlehem,  as  in  vision  old  foretelling 
The  prophets  holy. 

Him  hailed  the  angel  choir  with  joyous  singing ; 
A  star  declared  Him,  the  wise  princes  bringing 
From  Eastern  lands,  their  mystic  tribute  fling- 
ing 

In  worship  lowly. 

Incense  to  God,  myrrh  for  His  death  of  bless- 
ing, 

Spangles  of  gold  for  Him,  earth's  throne  pos- 
sessing, 

One,  yet  the  Blessed  Trinity  confessing, 
Three  giving  threefold. 

1860.  GREGORY. 

141 


VENI,   SANCTE   SPIRITUS. 

COME,  O  Spirit !  Fount  of  grace  ! 
From  Thy  heavenly  dwelling-place 
One  bright  morning  beam  impart  : 
Come,  O  Father  of  the  poor  ; 
Come,  O  Source  of  bounties  sure  ; 
Come,  O  Sunshine  of  the  heart ! 

Comforter  of  man  the  best ! 
Making  the  sad  soul  Thy  guest  ; 

Sweet  refreshing  in  our  fears, 
In  our  labour  a  retreat, 
Cooling  shadow  in  the  heat, 

Solace  in  our  falling  tears. 

O  !  thrice  blessed  light  divine  ! 
Come,  the  spirit's  inmost  shrine 

With  Thy  holy  presence  fill ; 
Of  Thy  brooding  love  bereft, 
Naught  to  hopeless  man  is  left ; 

Naught  is  his  but  evil  still. 
142 


VENI,  SANCTE  SPIRIT  US. 

Wash  away  each  earthly  stain, 
Flow  o'er  this  parched  waste  again, 

Heal  the  wounds  of  conscience  sore, 
Bind  the  stubborn  will  within, 
Thaw  the  icy  chains  of  sin, 

Guide  us,  that  we  stray  no  more. 

Give,  to  Thy  believers  give, 
In  Thy  holy  hope  who  live, 

All  Thy  sevenfold  dower  of  love  ; 
Give  the  sure  reward  of  faith, 
Give  the  love  that  conquers  death, 

Give  unfailing  joy  above. 
1860.  ROBERT  OF  FRANCE. 

H3 


GRAVI   ME   TERRORE    PULSAS. 

TT  7ITH  what  heavy  fear  thou  smitest 

»  *       At  my  breast,  Life's  closing  day ! 
Faints  my  heart  ;  my  reins  are  loosened 

Melts  my  torn  and  shivering  clay  ; 
With  foreboding  sad  that  image 

Doth  the  troubled  mind  pourtray. 

Who  to  pierce  that  scene  of  terror 

Can  his  mortal  vision  send  ? 
When  the  narrow  race  is  rounded, 

And  the  wrestling  soul  shall  rend 
All  the  earthly  ties  that  bind  it, 

Hasting  to  its  mournful  end. 

Dies  the  sense  ;  the  lips  are  stiffened  ; 

Roll  the  clouded  eyes  in  vain  : 
Pants  the  bosom  ;  hoarse  the  whisper 

Gasping  from  the  breath  of  pain  : 
Pale  the  face  ;  the  limbs  are  palsied, 

Grace  nor  motion  there  remain. 
144 


GRAVI  ME  TERRORE  PULSAS. 

See  !  as  mighty  currents  parted, 
The  unbodied  spirits  flow  : 

Here  the  shining  powers  angelic, 
There  the  daemon  crowd  of  woe  ; 

Each  unto  his  doom  self-chosen, 
With  resistless  feet  shall  go. 

All  our  inmost  thoughts,  endeavours, 
Words  and  deeds  before  us  rise, 

All  a  marshalled  host  assembled, 
Bare  to  our  unwilling  eyes. 

Turn  we  hither,  glance  we  thither, 
Lo  !  the  cloud  of  witnesses. 

Ah  !  how  doth  the  gnawing  conscience 
Now  the  guilty  bosom  tear  ; 

Memory  calls  each  ebbing  season 
With  the  summons  of  despair  ; 

Saddening  sentence  !  late  repentance 
Only  sighs  a  fruitless  prayer. 

Now  the  sweet  of  earth  deluding 

Into  bitter  poison  turns  ; 
Now  the  riot  of  a  moment 

As  an  endless  sorrow  burns  ; 
H5 


GRA  VI  ME  TERRORE  PULSAS. 

And  in  all  our  fancied  greatness 
Empty  nothing  it  discerns. 

Hear  me,  Christ  !     O  King  unconquered  ! 

Hear  Thy  hapless  suppliant  call  ! 
In  the  day  of  death,  that  cometh 

Thy  stern  messenger  to  all, 
Shield  me,  that  I  may  not  victim 

To  the  impious  tyrant  fall. 

Perish  the  fell  Prince  of  Darkness  ! 

Perish  all  his  hellish  pride  ! 
Then  Thy  ransomed  flock,  O  Shepherd  ! 

To  the  fold  of  heaven  guide, 
Where  in  living  pastures  feeding, 

They  may  evermore  abide. 
1860.  PETRUS  DAMIANI. 

146 


AUDI,  TELLUS,  AUDI. 

HEAR,  earth,  hear  God's  decree  ; 
Cave  of  the  mighty  sea  ; 
Hear,  man,  hear  every  one 
That  dwells  beneath  the  sun. 

It  cometh,  it  is  near  ; 
The  day  of  wrath  and  fear  ; 
Wo  !  for  that  bitter  day  ; 
When  fleeth  Heaven  away  ; 
Gloweth  the  sun  blood  red  ; 
The  moon  no  longer  burneth  ; 
Morning  to  blackness  turneth  ; 
Earthward  the  wan  stars  fall : 
Upon  that  day  of  dread, 
Woe  !  woe  !  for  sinners  all, 
In  guilt  and  misery, 
What  shall  our  portion  be  ? 

ANONYMOUS. 
1861. 

147 


CUR    MUNDUS    MILITAT 

V\  7HY  battles  all  the  world 
*  "         For  its  vain  glory, 
Whose  bravest  happiness 
Is  transitory  ? 

So  soon  its  brittle  power 
A  light  touch  shaketh, 

Even  as  a  vase  of  clay 
In  pieces  breaketh. 

Write  words  upon  the  ice 
And  trust  their  staying, 

Sooner  than  idle  cheats 
Of  earth  decaying. 

Flattered  with  baubles  gay, 
In  truth's  mask  hiding, 

Thy  life's  a  little  day 
Of  false  confiding. 
148 


CUR  MUNDUS  MI  LI  TAT. 

Better  to  plant  thy  trust 
In  wise  men's  teaching, 

Than  for  the  wretched  gauds 
Of  fortune  reaching. 

False  are  its  airy  dreams, 
And  false  its  pleasing, 

Its  labours  and  its  lusts 
A  hollow  leasing. 

Say,  where  is  Solomon, 
Of  wisdom  vaunted  ; 

And  stoutest  Samson  now, 
The  chief  undaunted  ? 

Say,  where  is  Absalom, 

Of  beauty  royal  ; 
And  Jonathan,  the  heart 

To  friendship  loyal  ? 

Where  hath  the  Caesar  left 
His  empire  splendid  ? 

And  Dives'  banqueting 
In  sorrow  ended  ? 

Say,  where  is  Tully's  voice 
In  senates  burning  ? 
149 


CUR  MUNDUS  MI  LI  TAT. 

And  the  wise  Stagyrite, 
Master  of  learning  ? 

Such  leaders  of  renown  ; 

Such  bygone  spaces  ; 
Such  stately  brows  of  old, 

Such  kingly  races  ; 

Such  potentates  of  earth, 
The  boast  of  story  ; — 

One  flashing  of  an  eye, 
And  gone  their  glory  ! 

How  brief  a  holyday 
Man's  pomp  abideth, 

And  all  his  pleasure  gay 
A  shadow  glideth  ! 

Feast  of  the  crawling  worm  ! 

Dust  to  dust  crumbled  ! 
Drop  of  the  morning  dew, 

Be  thy  pride  humbled  ! 

Even  to-morrow's  fate 

Veiled  from  thy  blindness, 
Crowd  thou  to-day  with  deeds 

Of  loving-kindness. 
150 


CUR  MUNDUS  MI  LIT  A  T. 

This  glory  of  the  flesh, 

Which  man  paradeth, 
The  Holy  Book  doth  call 

A  flower  that  fadeth. 

Even  as  the  shrivelled  leaf 
On  the  wind  sweeping, 

So  drops  the  life  of  man, 
To  darkness  creeping. 

Call  not  thine  own,  whate'er 

A  moment  liveth  ; 
The  world  shall  snatch  again 

All  that  it  giveth  ; 

Ponder  the  things  above  ! 

Happy,  whose  treasure, 
Garnered  in  heaven,  scorns 

The  base  world's  pleasure. 

BERNARD  OF  CLAIRVAUX. 
1859. 


AD   COR   CHRISTI. 

SUM  MI     REGIS     COR,     AVETO. 

HEART  of  Christ,  my  King,  I  greet  Thee  ! 
Gladly  goes  my  heart  to  meet  Thee  ; 
To  embrace  Thee  now  it  burneth, 
And  with  eager  thirst  it  yearneth, 

Spirit  blest,  to  talk  with  Thee. 
Oh  !  what  love  divine  compelling  ! 
With  what  grief  Thy  breast  was  swelling ! 
All  Thy  soul  for  us  o'erflowing, 
All  Thy  life  on  us  bestowing, 

Sinful  men  from  death  to  free  ! 

Oh,  that  death  !  in  bitter  anguish, 
Cruel,  pitiless  to  languish  ! 
To  the  inmost  cell  it  entered, 
Where  the  life  of  man  was  centered, 

Gnawing  Thy  sweet  heart-strings  there. 
For  that  death  which  Thou  hast  tasted, 
For  that  form  by  sorrow  wasted, 
Heart  to  my  heart  ever  nearest, 
152 


AD  COR  CHRIST  I. 

Kindle  in  me  love  the  dearest  ; 
This,  O  Lord,  is  all  my  prayer. 

O  sweet  Heart !  my  choicest  blessing, 
Cleanse  my  heart,  its  sin  confessing  ; 
Hardened  in  its  worldly  folly, 
Make  it  soft  again,  and  holy, 

Melting  all  its  icy  ground. 
To  my  heart's  core  come  and  quicken 
Me  a  sinner,  conscience-stricken  ; 
Be  Thy  grace  my  soul  renewing, 
All  its  powers  to  Thee  subduing, 

Languishing  with  love's  sweet  wound. 

Open  flower,  with  blossom  fairest, 
As  a  rose  of  fragrance  rarest ; 
Knit  to  Thee  mine  inmost  feeling ; 
Pierce,  then  pour  the  oil  of  healing  ; 

What  to  love  of  Thee  is  pain  ? 
Naught  he  fears,  whom  Thy  love  calleth, 
No  self-sacrifice  appalleth  ; 
Love  divine  can  have  no  measure, 
Every  death  to  him  is  pleasure, 

Where  such  holy  love  doth  reign. 
153 


AD  COR  CHRIST  I. 

Cries  my  heart  with  living  voices  : 
In  Thee,  heart  of  Christ,  rejoices  ; 
Draw  Thou  nigh  with  gracious  motion, 
Knit  it,  till  in  full  devotion 

Thou  its  every  power  employ. 
Love  be  all  my  life  ;  no  slumber 
E'er  my  drowsy  thought  encumber  ; 
To  Thee  praying,  Thee  imploring, 
Thee  aye  praising,  Thee  adoring, 

Thee  my  sempiternal  joy  ! 

Heart  Rose,  in  Thy  fulness  blossom, 
Shed  Thy  perfume  o'er  my  bosom  ; 
Be  Thy  beaiitv  in  me  growing  ; 
Light  the  fires  forever  glowing 

On  the  altar  of  my  heart. 
Aid  me,  Thy  dear  image  wearing, 
E'en  Thy  wounds,  my  Jesu,  sharing, 
Till  Thy  very  form  I  borrow, 
When  my  bosom  feels  Thy  sorrow, 

Piercing  with  its  keenest  dart. 

To  Thy  holy  heart,  oh,  take  me  ! 
Thy  companion,  Jesu,  make  me, 
154 


AD  COR  CHIUSri. 

In  that  sorrow  joy  exceeding, 

In  that  beauty  scarred  and  bleeding, 

Till  my  heart  be  wholly  Thine. 
Rest,  my  soul !  now  naught  shall  sever  ; 
After  Thee  it  follows  ever  ; 
Here  its  thirst  finds  glad  fulfilling  ; 
Jesu  !  be  Thou  not  unwilling, 

Take  this  loving  heart  of  mine  ! 

BERNARD  OF  CLAIRVAUX. 
1860. 

155 


IN    TERRIS   ADHUC    POSITAM. 

ON  earth  awhile,  'mid  sufferings  tried, 
Still  hears  the  Church,  the  holy  Bride, 
Her  Lord  from  heaven,  calling  with  daily  cry, 
Bidding  her  heart  ascend  to  Him  on  high. 

"  Draw  me,"  she  answers,  "  after  Thee  ; 
Stretch  Thy  right  hand  to  succour  me  : 
On  winged  wings  Thou  soarest  to  the  skies  ; 
Without  Thy  wings,  how  can  I  thither  rise  ? " 

Ask  for  the  pinions  of  the  dove, 

To  hasten  to  that  nest  of  love  ; 

Ask  thou  the  eagle's  plumes  of  tireless  might, 

That  thou  may'st  climb  to  the  eternal  height. 

Both  wings  and  eyes  will  He  bestow, 
That  thou  the  sun's  unclouded  glow 
With  thy  undazzled  glances  may'st  behold, 
And  drink  the  blessedness  to  man  untold. 

Only  to  winged  beings  given 

Is  that  fair  home  of  upper  heaven  ; 

And  there  the  holy  souls  find  kindred  place, 

To  whom  our  God  shall  grant  the  wings  of 

grace. 

1860  ABELARD. 

156 


HYMNI   NOCTURNI. 

FRUIT-BEARING  trees  the  earth  adorn, 
And  now  the  heavenly  lamps  are  born. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  a  living  picture  glow, 
Sources  of  blessing  wide  to  all  below. 

This  goodly  building  now,  O  man  ! 

On  every  side  in  wonder  scan  : 
The  realm  of  heaven  confesses  it  is  thine, 
And  for  thy  service  beam  these  orbs  divine. 

He  basks  him  in  the  wintry  rays, 

For  whom  no  kindly  hearth  may  blaze  ; 

And  for  his  lantern  in  the  night 

The  poor  man  hath  the  moon  and  starry  light 

| 

The  rich  reclines  on  ivory  bed, 
The  greensward  for  the  poor  is  spread  ; 
For  him  the  birds  their  softest  carols  sing, 
The  flowers  their  breath  of  sweetest  perfume 
fling. 

157 


HYMN  I  NOCTURNI. 

O  rich  man,  at  a  price  too  dear 
Dost  thou  thy  tottering  palace  rear, 
Painting  upon  the  vaulted  ceiling  high, 
False  sun,  false  stars  within  a  mimic  sky. 

Beneath  the  true,  the  heavenly  dome, 
Hath  the  poor  man  his  beauteous  home, 
On  that  the  Maker  with  His  fingers  drew 
A  real  sun,  and  starry  torches  true. 

Ah  !  than  man's  building  nobler  far 
The  works  of  lordly  nature  are  : 
Created  without  toil,  or  earthly  gold, 
Time  crumbles  not,  nor  makes  them  ever  old. 

Man  only  serves  the  rich  man's  state  ; 

But  on  the  poor  the  angels  wait : 
All  tells  us  how*  the  generous  God  has  given 
To  us,  His  sons,  the  highest  things  of  heaven. 

ABELARD. 
1860. 

.58' 


MUNDI    RENOVATIO. 

QEE  !  with  nature's  joyous  birth 

*3     Spring  a  thousand  forms  of  mirth  ; 

From  its  slumber  all  the  earth 

Rises  with  the  Risen  King  ; 
All  things  know  the  Maker's  sway, 
Conscious  of  His  holy  day 

Come  with  festal  offering. 

Cloudless  now  the  heavens  blest, 
Gentlier  heaves  the  ocean's  breast, 
Softly  sinks  the  wind  to  rest ; 

Blooming  is  our  valley's  face, 
Green  the  withered  sod  awakes, 
And  the  ice-bound  streamlet  breaks, 

Warmed  by  loving  spring's  embrace. 

Life  o'er  death  the  victory  wins  ; 
Man  anew  the  joy  begins, 
Lost  how  early  by  his  sins  : 
Blissful  Eden  is  restored  ; 
Open  flies  the  welcoming  door, 
And  the  cherub  stern  no  more 

Waves  on  high  the  flaming  sword. 
1860.  ADAM  OF  ST.  VICTOR. 

159 


O    ESCA   VIATORUM  ! 

FOOD  for  the  wayworn  given  ! 
Bread  that  soft  drops  from  heaven  ! 
Manna  the  angels  eat  ! 
Our  hungered  spirits  feeding, 
Let  not  one  sick  soul  needing 
Lose  this  immortal  sweet. 

O  !  spring  of  love  excelling  ! 
Pure  wave,  forever  welling 

From  out  the  Saviour's  heart  ! 
Be  thou  our  thirst's  allaying  ; 
Thy  gift  is  all  our  praying  ; 

Thou  all  our  fulness  art. 

Jesu  !  Thy  beauty  hidden, 
To  our  dim  eyes  forbidden, 

Daily  we  here  adore  ; 
Grant  us,  Thy  face  unveiling, 
In  Thine  own  glorious  dwelling 

To  see  Thee  evermore. 

1860.  THOMAS  AQUINAS. 

1 60 


RECORDARE    SANCT^E    CRUCIS. 

PONDER  thou  the  Cross  all  holy, 

Who  wilt  tread  the  pathway  lowly 

To  the  perfect  joy  above  : 
Thou  the  holy  cross  aye  ponder, 
And  with  an  uncloying  wonder, 

Drink  its  mysteries  of  love. 

When  thou  toilest,  when  thou  sleepest, 
When  thou  smilest,  when  thou  weepest, 

Sad  or  gladsome  if  thou  art ; 
In  thy  coming,  in  thy  going, 
Whether  pain  or  solace  knowing, 

Keep  the  cross  within  thy  heart. 

In  the  cross,  'mid  burdens  aching, 
Heaviest  waves  above  thee  breaking, 

Thine  unending  comfort  find  ; 
Though  'midst  cruel  foes  thou  languish, 
Sweet  the  cross  in  every  anguish, 

Refuge  of  the  pious  mind. 
161 


RECORDARE  SAXCTJE  CRUCIS. 

Cross,  of  Paradise  the  portal, 

Where  have  clung  the  souls  immortal, 

Victors  in  this  earthly  strife  ; 
Holy  cross,  the  whole  world's  healing, 
By  it  is  God's  love  revealing 

Marvels  of  eternal  light. 

Cross  of  Christ,  the  soul's  well-being, 
Light  unshadowed  for  our  seeing, 

For  the  heart  its  sweetest  good  ; 
Cross,  the  life  all  saints  indwelling, 
Storehouse  of  all  gifts  excelling, 

Beauty  and  beatitude. 

Cross,  the  glass  of  brave  endeavour  ; 
Leader  of  our  triumph  ever, 

Hope  the  faithful  to  inspire  ; 
Badge  of  the  elect  of  heaven  ; 
Succour  in  our  trial  given  ; 

Fulness  of  the  soul's  desire. 

Cross,  the  tree  in  beauty  growing, 
Hallowed  by  Christ's  life-blood  flowing, 

Hanging  with  full-ripened  load  ; 
Bounty  for  all  spirits  bearing, 
162 


RECORD  ARE  SANCTJE  CRUCIS. 

An  immortal  banquet  sharing 
With  the  blessed  sons  of  God. 

Crucified,  oh,  make  me  stronger, 
While  my  life  is  spared  me  longer, 

Still  to  know  Thy  suffering  ; 
With  Thee  wounded,  with  Thee  dying, 
To  that  Form  before  me  lying 

On  the  holy  cross,  I  cling. 

1859.  BONAVENTURA. 


163 


OMXIS    MUNDI    CREATURA. 

SEE  in  every  earth-born  creature, 
As  a  mirror  tells  each  feature, 
An  illuminated  scroll. 
All  our  life,  and  our  decaying, 
All  its  changeful  lot  pourtraying  ; 
Truthful  image  of  the  soul  ! 

In  the  rose  thy  painted  glory  ; 
Read  thou  there  thy  human  story, 

Emblem  of  thy  fading  pride  ! 
See  its  bud  the  daylight  drinking, 
Flowerless  its  stem  is  sinking 

With  the  early  eventide. 

With  each  breath  away  'tis  breathing, 
And  its  beauty  pale  bequeathing 

In  the  cradle  to  the  tomb  : 
Old  with  new  in  fast  embracing, 
Hoary  age  is  childhood  chasing, 

Blight  is  hiding  in  its  bloom. 
164 


OAIN1S  MUNDI  CREATURA. 

So  the  spring  of  life  is  dawning, 
Flowering  youth  at  rosy  morning 

Opes  awhile  its  petals  white  : 
Soon  the  day  with  shadow  blendeth, 
And  the  creeping  twilight  endeth 

In  the  funeral  pall  of  night. 

Even  its  blossom  is  its  wasting, 
Ever  is  its  beauty  hasting 

Toward  age,  an  ebbing  wave  ; 
Gem  is  clay,  the  flow'ret's  splendour 
Withering  grass,  and  man  shall  render 

Dust  to  dust  within  the  grave. 

All  his  being,  his  endeavour 
Pain  and  ease  and  want  forever 

To  one  mortal  limit  flows  ; 
Dark  on  light,  and  pain  on  laughter ; 
Calm,  and  stormy  ocean  after, 

Morn  and  evening's  silent  close. 

Early  sorrow  on  us  stealing 
Is  decay's  sad  face  revealing  ; 
Toil  is  but  a  mimic  death  ; 
Every  trial  its  foretelling, 
165 


OMA'JS  MUNDI  CREA  TURA. 

Every  grief  the  moment  knelling, 
When  the  brief  scene  vanisheth. 

Know,  O  man,  the  law  that  Heaven 
To  thy  mortal  state  has  given  ; 

Thine  confess  this  fading  lot ; 
What  thou  wast,  ere  born  to  sorrow, 
What  to-day,  and  what  to-morrow, 

Know,  and  ah  !  forget  it  not. 

Mourn  the  sin  that  bringeth  sadness, 
Break  thy  pride,  and  curb  thy  madness, 

Cast  thy  lofty  looks  away  : 
Lord  of  souls  !  our  life-course  guiding, 
In  Thy  narrow  path  abiding, 
Never  may  our  footsteps  stray. 

ALAXUS  INSULANUS. 
1860. 

1 66 


VITA  NOSTRA  PLENA  BELLIS. 

LIFE,  O  man,  is  all  a  battle, 
Ever  'midst  the  iron  rattle, 
Ever  camped  'mid  crafty  foes  ; 
Wakes  the  trumpet  sound  each  morrow  ; 
Crash  of  arms,  and  wail  of  sorrow 
Breaks  on  every  night's  repose. 

Yet  by  every  fear  undaunted, 
In  the  stormy  onset  planted, 

Stand  I  all  unshaken  still ; 
Not  the  wrath  of  man  can  wound  me, 
Not  the  marshalled  legions  round  me, 

Not  the  bolts  of  deadliest  skill. 

Lo  !  in  thickest  clouds  He  marches, 
He  who  bends  from  heaven's  arches, 

Ruler  of  the  starry  throne  : 
He  against  the  foeman  shieldeth, 
He  the  eternal  weapons  wieldeth, 

And  my  battle  is  His  own. 
167 


VITA  XOSTXA  PLEXA  B ELLIS. 

He  the  bow,  the  arrow  breaketh, 
He  the  mail-clad  warrior  shaketh 

With  His  everlasting  flame  ; 
Fearless  stand  I,  never  flying, 
All  the  angry  host  defying, 

More  than  conqueror  in  His  name. 

ALAXUS  INSULANUS. 
1859. 

r  68 


ALL   ANGELS. 

EVER  stand  the  Angel  throng, 
Lauding  God  in  holy  song ; 
Gazing  on  their  glorious  King, 
With  the  heart,  the  voice,  they  sing  ; 
Harp-notes  flinging,  timbrels  ringing, 
Now  on  golden  plumes  up-springing, 
Climbing  on  the  heavenly  stair  ; 
Sweet  bells  blending,  white-robed  bending 
Near  the  highest  Trinity  ; 
Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  crying  : 
Flieth  sorrow,  ceaseth  sighing, 
In  that  city  of  the  sky. 
Mingled  are  all  happy  voices, 
One  that  in  their  God  rejoices  ; 
Love  in  every  mind  is  burning, 
In  pure  vision  upward  turning 
To  the  Eternal  One,  the  Blessed  Trine. 
All  the  glowing  seraphim 
169 


ALL  AXGELS. 

With  a  heart  of  fire  adore  Him  ; 
All  the  keen-eyed  cherubim 
Veil  their  faces  low  before  Him  ; 
Awed,  the  Thrones   behold    the    Majesty 
Divine. 

Oh,  how  wonderful  that  region  ! 
Oh,  how  beautiful  that  legion  ! 
Men  with  Angels  ever  bright ! 
Shining  city,  aye  in  Thee 
Reigneth  full  tranquillity, 
In  Thy  borders  peace  and  light. 
Dwellers  of  this  city  fair, 
Garments  white  of  chasteness  wear  ; 
In  one  household  of  sweet  love, 
One  unbroken  circle  move. 
Naught  of  darkness,  naught  of  care, 
Grief,  temptation,  haunteth  there  : 
Free  from  sickness,  ever  blest, 
Theirs  of  every  good  the  best. 

THOMAS  A  KEMPIS. 
lS6o. 

170 


ANTIPHONA  AD    NOCTURXOS. 

IN  midst  of  life 
We  are  in  death  ; 
From  whom  may  succour  be, 

O  Lord,  save  Thee, 
Whose  anger  just  our  sins  remembereth  ? 

Yet,  Holy  Lord, 
Holy  and  mighty  ever, 
Holy  and  full  of  grace, 
Redeemer  of  our  race, 
To  bitter  death  do  not  our  souls  deliver. 
ANONYMOUS. 

[Eleventh  Century.] 
I/I 


ST.   JOHN    EVANGELIST. 

["  Verbum  Dei,  Deo  natum."] 

V\  JORD  of  God,  begotten  Son, 
*  *    Uncreate,  eternal  one, 

Coming  from  the  bliss  above, 
John  beheld  Him,  and  revealed, 
And  to  mortal  minds  unsealed, 

That  deep  mystery  of  love. 

'Midst  the  primal  rivers,  fed 

From  the  Truth's  own  fountain-head 

That  quick-leaping  spirit  flowed  ; 
For  the  world  the  nectar  gave, 
Drawn  from  out  the  crystal  wave, 

Gushing  by  the  throne  of  God. 

Heaven  he  trod,  undazzled  gazed 
Where  the  true  sun's  axle  blazed  ; 

Seer  of  unearthly  things  ; 
And  the  face  of  God  he  saw, 
As  the  seraphs  look  in  awe 

Underneath  their  shading  wings. 
172 


ST.  JOHN  EVANGELIST. 

Heard  he,  round  the  eternal  seat, 
All  the  Elders  chaunting  sweet 

The  new  song  to  harps  divine  ; 
And  on  earthly  city's  gold 
Stamped  he  with  the  heavenly  mould, 

Signet  of  the  Blessed  Trine. 

Bird  of  God,  with  boundless  flight 
Soaring  from  beyond  the  height 

Of  the  bard  or  prophet  old  ; 
Truth  fulfilled  and  truth  to  be,        .    ' 
Never  purer  mystery 

Did  a  purer  tongue  unfold. 

In  His  robe  of  blood-red  dyes, 
Seen,  yet  hid  from  human  eyes  : 

To  His  palace  Christ  withdrew  : 
Heavenly  comfort  to  bestow 
On  His  weeping  Bride  below, 

Lo  !  the  prophet  eagle  flew. 

Say,  beloved  one,  how  fair 
Our  Beloved  is  ;  declare 

His  glad  message  to  His  Bride ; 

173 


ST.  JOHN  EVANGELIST. 

Say  what  food  the  angels  taste, 
How  the  sons  of  heaven  feast 
In  that  presence  glorified. 

Give  us  of  the  living  bread, 
Supper  which  thy  spirit  fed, 

Leaning  on  the  Saviour's  breast  ; 
That  with  thee  the  endless  Psalm, 
Near  the  throne,  before  the  Lamb, 

We  may  sing  in  heaven  blest. 
1860.  ANONYMOUS. 

[Thirteenth  Century.] 
174 


ALTITUDO,    QUID   HIC   JACKS? 

HEIGHT  of  heaven,  why  art  Thou  lying 
Cradled  in  a  stable  base  ? 
Maker  of  the  starry  torches, 

Hides  a  manger  cold  Thy  face  ? 
Oh,  what  marvels  hast  Thou  lavished, 

Jesu,  upon  sinful  men  ! 
Exiles  from  the  bliss  of  Eden, 
Yet  Thy  heart  hath  loved  again. 

Might  divine  becometh  weakness  ; 

Infinite  a  babe  could  be  ; 
In  a  mortal  womb  imprisoned, 

Born — behold  Eternity  ! 
Oh,  what  marvels  hast  Thou  lavished, 

Jesu,  upon  sinful  men  ! 
Exiles  from  the  bliss  of  Eden, 

Yet  Thy  heart  hath  loved  again. 

Thou  with  childish  lips  wast  clinging 
To  the  stainless  Virgin's  breast ; 
175 


ALTITUDO,  QUID  H1C  JACES? 

Tear-drops  from  Thine  eyes  were  springing, 

Thou,  the  joy  of  heaven  blest ! 
Oh,  what  marvels  hast  Thou  lavished, 

Jesu,  upon  sinful  men  ! 
Exiles  from  the  bliss  of  Eden, 

Yet  Thy  heart  hath  loved  again. 
1859.  ANONYMOUS. 

[Fourteenth  Century.] 
I76 


PARVUM   QUANDO   CERNO   DEUM. 

WHEN  within  His  mother's  arms 
I  the  infant  God  behold, 
All  my  heart  the  vision  warms 
With  a  blessedness  untold. 

Leaps  He,  mother  !  leaps  the  Boy, 
Gazing  at  thy  holy  breast ! 

Kisses  with  a  smile  of  joy, 
Thousand  kisses,  fondly  prest ! 

As  upon  the  stainless  skies 

Peaceful  hangs  the  new-born  sun, 

So  upon  thy  bosom  lies, 

Mother  pure,  thy  Holy  One. 

Ah  !  how  lovely  that  repose  ! 

Mother  with  the  Infant  fair, 
Twined  as  with  the  tender  rose, 

Violet  and  lily  are. 
177 


PARVUM  QUANDO  CERNO  DEUM. 

Many  a  silent  clasp  of  bliss, 
Many  a  look  of  smiling  love, 

As  the  flowers  the  meadow  kiss, 
As  the  starry  eyes  above. 

Oh  !  if  one  such  loving  dart, 
Falling  on  that  mother  mild, 

May  but  fall  within  my  heart, 

Infant  Jesu,  Holy  Child  ! 
1859.  ANONYMOUS. 

[Fourteenth  Century.] 
I78 


PONE   LUCTUM   MAGDALENA ! 

STILL  thy  sorrow,  Magdalena ! 
Wipe  the  tear-drops  from  thine  eyes  ; 
Not  at  Simon's  board  thou  kneelest, 

Pouring  thy  repentant  sighs  : 
All  with  thy  glad  heart  rejoices  ; 
All  things  sing  with  happy  voices  : 
Hallelujah  ! 

Laugh  with  rapture,  Magdalena  ! 

Be  thy  drooping  forehead  bright ; 
Banished  now  is  every  anguish, 

Breaks  anew  thy  morning  light ; 
Christ  from  death  the  world  hath  freed  ; 
He  is  risen,  is  risen  indeed  : 
Hallelujah  ! 

Joy  !  exult,  O  Magdalena  ! 

He  hath  burst  the  rocky  prison  ; 
Ended  are  the  days  of  darkness  ; 

Conqueror  hath  He  arisen. 
179 


PONE  LUCTUM  MAGDALENA. 

Mourn  no  more  the  Christ  departed  ; 
Run  to  welcome  Him,  glad-hearted  : 
Hallelujah  ! 

Lift  thine  eyes,  O  Magdalena  ! 

See  !  thy  living  Master  stands  ; 
See  His  face,  as  ever,  smiling  ; 

See  those  wounds  upon  His  hands, 
On  His  feet,  His  sacred  side, — 
Gems  that  deck  the  Glorified  : 
Hallelujah  ! 

Live,  now  live,  O  Magdalena  ! 

Shining  is  thy  new-born  day  ; 
Let  thy  bosom  pant  with  pleasure, 

Death's  poor  terror  flee  away  ; 
Far  from  thee  the  tears  of  sadness, 
Welcome  love,  and  welcome  gladness  ! 

Hallelujah  ! 
1859.  ANONYMOUS. 

[Fourteenth  Century.] 
1 80 


O!    QUANTA,   QUALIA   SUNT   ILLA 
SABBATA. 

HOW  great,  how  beautiful  that  Sabbath  rest, 
Kept  in  the  court  eternal  of  the  blest ! 
Repose  for  weary  souls  !  for  brave  reward  ! 
For  there  our  All  in  all  shall  be  the  Lord. 

What  King !    what  holy  court !    what  palace 

fair  ! 
What    peace  !    what    solace  !    what    rejoicing 

there ! 

Ye  glorious  dwellers  !  your  own  joy  reveal, 
If  ye  can  utter  all  your  spirits  feel. 

The  true  Jerusalem  !  that  state  above  ! 
Whose  peace  unending  is  our  highest  love  ; 
Where  longing  hope  cannot  true  joy  forerun  ; 
Where  perfect  happiness  and  hope  are  one  ! 

There  shall  our  sorrowings  forever  cease, 
And  Sion's  lofty  songs  we  sing  in  peace  ; 
181 


0!    QL'A.VTA,  QUALIA   SUNT  ILLA   SABBATA. 

Thy  happy  people,  Lord,  before  Thy  face, 
Pay  gracious  offerings  for  Thy  gifts  of  grace. 

There  still  a  Sabbath  new  on  Sabbath  rolls, 
An  endless  holy  day  of  holy  souls, 
That  chant  ineffable,  rise  evermore, 
Which  saints  in  glory  with  the  angels  pour. 

Thither  we  lift,  O  God,  our  waiting  eyes  ; 
And  see  our  fatherland  in  hope  arise, 
Homeward  from  Babylon  we  fondly  yearn, 
After  long,  weary  exile  to  return. 

1860.  ANONYMOUS. 

[Fourteenth  Century.] 
182 


AVE    ROSA   SPINIS    PUNCTA. 

HAIL,  O  Rose,  transpierced  with  thorns, 
Hail,  O  thorn  the  rose  adorns  ! 
Not  for  sin,  but  for  our  cure, 
Didst  Thou,  Lord,  these  thorns  endure. 

Hail,  O  Rose,  with  thorn-prints  cloven  ! 
Hail,  O  thorn,  with  roses  woven  ! 
Grace  divine,  that  passeth  knowing, 
Gifts  of  life  thro'  thorn  bestowing 
In  the  pity  of  our  Lord. 

ANONYMOUS. 

[Fifteenth  Century.] 


IN    NATALI    DOMINI. 

ON  the  birthday  of  the  Lord 
Angel  hosts  with  one  accord 
Chaunt  with  joy  before  the  throne  ; 
Glory  to  one  God  alone. 
The  Virgin  bore  the  eternal  Word  : 
The  Virgin  bore  the  Christ  adored, 
The  Virgin  ever  stainless. 

Born  is  our  Emmanuel ; 
Gabriel  did  the  day  foretell  ; 
Prophets  hailed  the  dawning  sun, 
Him,  the  sole  begotten  one. 
The  Virgin  bore  the  eternal  Word  : 
The  Virgin  bore  the  Christ  adored, 
The  Virgin  ever  stainless. 

Lo  !  a  seraph  tells  the  tale  : 
Shepherds  glad  in  hill  and  dale 
Sing  the  holy  Saviour's  birth, 
Sweetest  tidings  for  the  earth. 
184 


hV  NA  TALI  DOMINI, 

The  Virgin  bore  the  eternal  Word  : 
The  Virgin  bore  the  Christ  adored, 
The  Virgin  ever  stainless. 

Hail  to-day  the  happy  morn, 
Hail  the  Son  from  Mary  born, 
Born  of  God's  o'ershadowing  might, 
God  of  God  and  light  of  light. 
The  Virgin  bore  the  eternal  Word  : 
The  Virgin  bore  the  Christ  adored, 
The  Virgin  ever  stainless. 

See  the  Eastern  kings  adore, 
Gold  and  myrrh  and  incense  pour, 
Bending  to  the  Eternal  King, 
Glory  to  our  God  they  sing. 
The  Virgin  bore  the  eternal  Word  : 
The  Virgin  bore  the  Christ  adored, 
The  Virgin  ever  stainless. 

ANONYMOUS. 

[Sixteenth  Century.] 
I85 


CUM    ME    TENENT    FALLACIA. 

WHEN  fleeting  earth  with  pleasures  vain 
Hath  bound  my  soul  to  heavy  chain, 
In  heaven  the  angel  bright,  who  keeps 
His  sleepless  watch,  beholds  and  weeps. 

But  when  my  sorrowing  tears  I  pour, 
And  all  my  sins  to  God  deplore, 
Then  smiles  with  joy  the  angel  fair, 
Whose  heart  is  touched  with  all  my  care. 

Away,  deceitful  world  !  away  ! 
Ye  shadowy  joys,  no  longer  stay  ! 
Come,  tears  of  grief,  and  ceaseless  flow, 
To  wash  my  sin,  to  tell  my  woe. 

O  let  me  not  in  reckless  years, 
Still  cause  those  holy  angels  tears  ; 
But  while  I  mourn  with  sorrow  true, 
Ever  those  angel  smiles  renew. 

1860.  ALARD. 

1 86 


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